The White Dragons, Lords of Duskendale
by Kerjack
Summary: The greatest exterior threat to the Targaryen dynasty was defeated at the Neck twenty years ago. But then again, the biggest threat-exterior or otherwise- the Targaryens have ever faced has always been themselves... *Sequel(ish) to The Dragon of Duskendale*
1. Chapter 1: Dramatis Personae

**Author's Note:** Hello all!

So, as you might have guessed by the title, this story is a sequel to and will take place 18 years after my previous work, The Dragon of Duskendale, and will focus on the descendants of the main character of that story, Aelor Targaryen. If you haven't read that and have no clue who the hell I'm talking about, I suggest you go check it out first, or you'll be terribly lost. As with my other uncompleted story on this site, Two Diamonds and a Stone (shameless self-promotion), this is more for my enjoyment; while I _did_ enjoy writing the Dragon of Duskendale, I got caught up in the desire to update as frequently as possible, and nearly burnt out. This will be much more laid back, and hopefully each chapter will have a high quality since I'm not rushing.

Shoutout to Psykic Ninja, who wrote an excellent story on the Game of Thrones archive (A Game of Vengeance and Justice) and who is in the process of posting a similar, several-years-after-the-end sequel of sorts. They were more than generous about lending their format when I reached out to them, and I suggest you all go give their work a read!

This first posting is just a character index to give you an idea of the new players in this game. Whenever you see the word "issue" after a characters name, it means they have children even though they aren't listed in the index. Some of those children may pop up in this story, and you will be told of their identity's then.

As you can probably see, a chapter of actual story content was uploaded simultaneously to this index. Cheers!

* * *

AC 322, 18 years after the events of 'A Dragon of Duskendale'

 **House Targaryen of King's Landing**

King Aegon Targaryen (41) and wife Aemma Arryn (36)

Prince Aelor Targaryen - 18, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne

Aelor's wife Vaella Targaryen - 20, cousin to the King, with child

-Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen - 2, son of Aelor and Vaella and third in line for the Iron Throne

Prince Vaekar Targaryen - 8, betrothed to Lady Viserra Targaryen

Princess Daenerys Targaryen (39), aunt to the King and member of the Small Council, and her husband Ser Melwys Celtigar (41)

-Rhaella Targaryen - 16, recently married to Edwyn Mallister

-Aerion Targaryen - stillborn

-Ardrian Targaryen - 10, not betrothed

-Vaelon Targaryen - 7, not betrothed

 **House Targaryen of Duskendale**

Lord Lucaerys Targaryen (21) and wife Daenella Waters (23)

Baelor Targaryen - 3, heir to Duskendale and twin to Baela, not betrothed

Baela Targaryen - 3, twin to Baelor, not betrothed

Lady Alysanne Lefford Targaryen - 58, grandmother of Lord Lucaerys and widow of Prince Aelor Targaryen the Dragon of Duskendale

 **House Targaryen of the Golden Tooth**

Lord Aemon Targaryen (37) and wife Shireen Baratheon (35), sworn to Casterly Rock

Rhaella Targaryen - 13, betrothed to Jaime Lannister

Rhaegar Targaryen - 11, heir to the Golden Tooth, not betrothed

Visenya Targaryen - 10, betrothed to Humfrey Redwyne

 **House Targaryen of the New North**

Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen (39), brother to the King, and wife Val (40), sworn to Winterfell

Alysanne Targaryen - 18, married to Royce Bolton

Lyanna - 15, not betrothed

Rhaenys Targaryen - 13, not betrothed

Aemon Targaryen - 10, heir to the New North, not betrothed

Aelor Targaryen - 7, not betrothed

 **House Targaryen of Summerhall**

Lady Viserra Targaryen - 5, betrothed to Prince Vaekar Targaryen

Her mother Daena Waters - 23, twin to Deanella Waters, married to Ser Alman Meadows, additional issue

 **House Stark of the North**

Lord Brandon Stark (33) and wife Saera Targaryen (25)

Meera Stark - 7, not betrothed

Cellador Stark - newborn, heir to the North, not betrothed

Sansa Stark - 36, sister of Lord Brandon, married to Lord Domeric Bolton, issue

Arya Stark - 34, sister of Lord Brandon, captain of Winterfell's guard, married to Harlon Karstark, issue

Rickon Stark - 29, brother of Lord Brandon, married to Alla Manderly, issue

Catelyn Tully Stark - sister of Lord Edmure Tully and mother of Sansa, Arya, Rickon and Lord Brandon

 **House Arryn of the Vale**

Lord Artys Arryn (36), twin brother to the Queen, and wife Margaery Tyrell (38)

Rodrik Arryn - 18, heir to the Vale, married to Priscilla Rykker

Willas Arryn - 14, not betrothed

Jon Arryn - 10, not betrothed

Lysa Tully Arryn - mother of Lord Artys and Queen Aemma and sister of Lord Edmure Tully, maddened since the death of her youngest Robin at age of 19 of pneumonia

 **House Tyrell of the Reach**

Lord Willas Tyrell (46) and wife Rhaenys Targaryen (42)

Alester Tyrell - 25, heir to the Reach, married to Malora Hightower, issue

Osmund Tyrell - 24, knight of the Kingsguard

Garlan Tyrell - 20, married to Falia Redwyne, no issue yet

Aelora Tyrell - 18, married to Lyonel Baratheon, no issue yet

Garlan Tyrell 'the Gallant' - 43, widower of Leonette Fossoway, issue

 **House Baratheon of the Stormlands**

Lord Steffon Baratheon (29) and wife Alyssa Targaryen (22)

Stannis Baratheon - stillborn

Argella Baratheon - 3, heiress to the Stormlands

Lyonel Baratheon - 23, brother of Lord Steffon, married to Aelora Tyrell, no issue yet

 **House Lannister of the Westerlands**

Tyrion Lannister (53), Hand of the King, and his wife Elinor Prester (35), the Shebull of Feastfires

Jaime Lannister - 14, heir to the Westerlands and ward of Lord Aemon Targaryen, betrothed to Aemon's daughter Rhaella

Joanna Lannister - 10, a dwarf girl, not betrothed

 **House Tully of the Riverlands**

Lord Edmure Tully (51) and his wife Liane Vance (40)

Hoster Tully - 17, heir to the Riverlands, betrothed to 13-year old Beony Whent

Elmer Tully - 13, not betrothed

Catelyn Tully - 12, betrothed to Rorran Mallister

 **House Martell of Dorne**

Princess Arianne (45) and her husband Ser Anders Santagar (42)

Princess Elia Martell - 18, heir to Dorne, married to her cousin Ser Oberyn Martell (son of Quentyn)

Princess Tyene Martell - 15, not betrothed

Aller Sand - 13, bastard son with paramour Ulwyth Vaith, the Lord of the Red Dunes, not betrothed

Prince Quentyn Martell - 41, brother of Arianne, father of Oberyn and Master of the Water Gardens, married to Gwyneth Yronwood, additional issue

Prince Trystane Martell - 39, brother of Arianne and Ser of the Spear Tower, married to Ellaria Dalt, one daughter

 **House Mallister of the Iron Islands**

Lord Patrek Mallister (49) and his wife Mary Moore (50)

Justin Mallister - 27, heir to the Iron Islands, married to Kyra Royce, issue

Lora Mallister - 23, married to Lord Leo Rosby, issue

Rorran Mallister - 18, betrothed to Catelyn Tully

 **The Kingsguard**

Lord Commander Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning

Ser Baelon 'Blooddragon' Targaryen

Ser Mychel Redfort

Ser Osmund Tyrell

Ser Alex 'Red Alex' Bulwer

Ser Alex 'Blue Alex' Rollingford

Ser Colmar Paege


	2. Chapter 2: The Dangers of Blood I

**Author's Note:** Please leave a review! I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Lord Eddard Stark certainly didn't look like a legend. But then again, this _was_ only a statue.

The stone likeness of the former Lord of the North stared out towards the center of the dark crypts, longsword across his lap and stone direwolf curled at his feet. Luke knew as well as anyone that a statue carved from memory was bound to deviate from the actual appearance of its muse, but he had still been expecting to look at the effigy of the Quiet Wolf and feel as if he were looking upon greatness.

But instead he was simply looking at another stone face, similar in features to the dozens of others under Winterfell. Shaggy hair and beard carved around a stern face spoke nothing of the reputation of the man they represented, he who had in his youth bent the knee to spare Northern lives and in his middle years had died defending his castle from death itself. Ned Stark had been the first man to kill an Other, shattering it into a thousand pieces to save the life of his nephew Jaehaerys Targaryen, and then had thrust a dagger into his own brain to prevent himself from joining their undead army, a hero's death for a man still spoken of reverently north of the Neck.

To Luke he just looked like another dead Stark resting with his forefathers. _But a stone can't capture the majesty of legends any more than it can the flush of life, and a man's deeds have little to do with his appearance. History won't tell of his brow, only his battles._

"Why in the name of the Seven are you still down here? Come, the King's party is in sight. Besides, it's even colder here than in our chambers, and a moment ago I wouldn't have thought that possible!"

A touch of a smile crossed his face as he turned towards the woman's voice. Daenella Waters hurried towards him, hugging her arms to herself as she near-sprinted down the center of the crypts. Layers of fur—Luke didn't know how many, for his wife seemed to add another every hour—were so thick around her shoulders that it hid the shapely form beneath them, rising so high off of her shoulders that they lay parallel to her prominent cheekbones. Her silvery-blonde hair was piled atop her head in in a mass of pins that was all the recent rage in King's Landing, though for the life of him Luke didn't understand why she and her handmaidens went through the process every day; his wife was a beautiful woman, showing the classic Targaryen beauty of their shared ancestors even if she didn't have the name.

"I have heard so many stories of Eddard Stark that I simply had to pay respects."

"To a _statue?_ " Luke gave a surprised grunt as Daenella barreled into him, burrowing herself under his arm. He would have found it sweet if he didn't know it was for warmth. _Okay, so I find it sweet anyway._ "He's not even related to us in any way."

"He'll go down in history as a hero of the Second War for the Dawn, along with my grandfather. It's not every day you get to visit the grave of a future legend, of a man history will always remember the name of."

His wife said nothing to that, and Luke grimaced at his own stupidity. Their marriage was a happy one, even if they didn't quite love one another, but the means by which it had come about was always in the background, ready to rear its ugly head. Daenella and he had been betrothed nineteen years ago, when he was a young lord of two and she a bastard girl of four. Neither of them had been awarded a say in it even when they were older, but even if they had it would have been overruled. Their marriage had been agreed upon for the security of the Iron Throne, not for any compatibility or match of royal blood between the two.

Luke was a powerful lord and the grandson of the man who had twice saved the Targaryen dynasty, and whose loyalty to King Aegon had been drilled into him since the day he was born. Daenella was the daughter of the traitor who had saw his quest for the throne destroyed at the hands of Luke's grandfather, and who had a claim that overly ambitious men could try and press for their own means. It had been a wise match then, nullifying Daenella's claim through her father Viserys by marrying her to the loyalty-assured grandson of Aelor, but Luke cursed it often when it caused an issue between he and his wife. _And it causes an issue much more often than I care to admit._

 _Loyal Lucaerys, defender of the Crown. Even from my wife._

Luke cleared his throat awkwardly, changing the subject to something that never failed to cheer his wife. "Where are the twins?"

As it always did at the mention of their children, Daenella's mood perked up and a smile crossed her lips. "Alysanne and Alyssa stole them from me in every sense of the word. I believe Lord Brandon's sister was in on it as well; I half expect a betrothal proposition from Lord Domeric to either of them, and you had best believe Lady Sansa will be at the heart of it."

Luke shook his head in exasperation, keeping an arm wrapped around his wife as they began a slow stroll back out of the crypts through which she had just came. "They are three. _Three._ "

"They're also Targaryens, and every house in Westeros wants a piece of that pie."

He grunted, enjoying the warmth the contact almost as much as his wife did. _And as Targaryens, our place is somewhere warm. My aunt is certainly a tough woman to survive such temperatures in the bloody_ summer _._ "The Boltons already _have_ a Targaryen. Prince Jaehaerys' Alysanne married the heir Royce just this past year, remember?"

Daenella swung her hip into his playfully. "Oh, come now. They want a _real_ Targaryen."

Luke raised an eyebrow in bemusement. "And Prince Jaehaerys isn't? He's as much Targaryen as either you or I."

"Oh, you know what I mean, one that actually _looks_ like a Targaryen…and isn't constantly surrounded by wolves the size of horses."

Luke laughed aloud as they began to ascend the stairs out of the crypts. "Aye, they are _frightful_ beasts aren't they? Who would've thought a large dog would give me more of a chill than massive dragons do?"

Another voice spoke from halfway up the stairs of the crypts, full of humor and fake-reprimand. "Large dogs, Lucaerys? I dare say you'd best never let Meera here you call them that."

Luke grinned at the tall, attractive woman standing a few steps above them, fists on her hips as she shot them a sly smile. Lady Saera Targaryen Stark of Winterfell was by blood his aunt and by reality more like his sister, for they had been raised together at Duskendale on the shores of the Narrow Sea. At five and twenty she had grown from a long limbed girl to a tall, dignified woman, with a beauty that put you more in mind of her mother Alysanne despite the violet eyes, silver hair and broad shoulders Saera had inherited from her father. She had gone north to marry Lord Brandon the Wise Wolf nine years earlier, and in that time had adopted the northern furs and wools of her adopted home. She even wore her hair in a long, silver braid draped over one shoulder, a style considered fashion suicide in the south but seemed much more practical to Luke than his wife's elaborate hair.

Not that he'd ever tell Daenella that; he enjoyed life after all.

Saera moved to the side as the two other Targaryens stepped up even with her, Luke pressing a quick kiss to her cheek as she joined them in ascent. "By the Seven you're right, she'd likely feed me to Summer on the spot. Even in his old age that direwolf could rip my throat out."

His aunt hooked her arm through his, smile never having left her pretty face. "Aye he could, and I advise you not forget it. I half expected to find you two on top of one another disgracing Bran's ancestors down here; from what Alyssa wrote me, it was near a nightmare trying to save oneself from being traumatized in the early months of your marriage."

Daenella and Saera laughed while Luke blushed, a reaction that caused both women to laugh all the louder. Despite the embarrassment Lucaerys couldn't help but smile, swinging open the ironwood doors of the crypts to allow the two women to exit ahead of him. The courtyard of Winterfell was already bustling with activity, giving credence to his wife's earlier proclamation that the King's party grew nearer.

It was a largely unintended gathering at Winterfell, but Lord Brandon and the Starks had adjusted to it well. While the Northerners hadn't been prone to many gatherings under Lord Eddard and had continued down that isolated path under Lord Brandon, the Wise Wolf had organized a celebration for the birth of his new heir, Cellador, whom Saera had given birth to four moons ago. It was meant to be a feast for Lord Brandon, his lords and Saera's family, along with a melee in the Northern tradition.

That large-but-not-too-large event had more than quadrupled in size, however, when Prince Aelor, heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, had made known his intent to ride north and participate. It had then increased in size again by a near unfathomable factor when his father King Aegon had decided to travel north to see his son fight and visit with his brother Jaehaerys. While jousting tournaments had been, was and likely always would be the rage of southern life, hundreds of knights and lordlings had opted to go north alongside their King both present and future. Even houses that wouldn't have members participating were coming, because the Seven knew if that house was going than this house certainly was as well. If a melee in the snows of the North was agreeable to Prince Aelor Targaryen then it was certainly agreeable to nearly all of the rest of the south, particularly if it opened an avenue for access to the Targaryen's as-of-yet not betrothed and may result in their houses being looked favorably upon by King Aegon.

Luke could have told them that the King didn't work like that, but such had been the way of court intrigue for nearly all of time.

The Starks had risen to the challenge, creating as much housing in Winterfell and Winter Town as they could for the coming influx of nobles. For those they couldn't house Lord Brandon had ordered massive tents and outdoor hearths to be built, to keep the guests as warm and happy as they could be made. Lucaerys imagined it was all one big headache to Saera and her husband, but the Lord of Winterfell was nothing if not a gracious host.

As if to confirm his earlier thought, Saera let out a great sigh. "I had best round up Meera and Cellador and fight my way to wherever my husband is in this mess. Ella, you'd best come with me; when I last saw my son, my sister had him in one arm and Baela in the other. Lady Sansa was making her escape with Baelor at the same time."

Daenella laughed, turning to press a kiss to Luke's lips. "I'll be back with the twins in just a few moments, love. Fight for a good spot; I want to see how young Vaekar handles all the attention!"

Luke watched his wife scurry away, smiling to himself as he drifted towards the edge of the growing crowd. Half of the Lord Paramount's were already present, with a handful of others still on the way. Luke could see the graybearded Lord Edmure Tully and his son Hoster in conversation with Edmure's sister, the aging but still beautiful Catelyn Stark. The Lord of the Riverlands was leaning heavily on an ironwood cane with a golden trout as its head, having never fully recovered from the wound that nearly cost him his leg at the Neck two decades earlier. Hoster, as Tully looking as Tully's got, had his young betrothed's arm linked through his, the young Beony Whent of Harrenhal unable to tear her eyes from the heir to the Riverlands handsome face.

Lord Willas Tyrell, he too leaning on a cane from an injury taken three decades earlier as opposed to two, stood with his wife Rhaenys, his youngest son Garlan and his brother, also Garlan, as well as his fiery daughter Aelora and her husband Lyonel Baratheon. Lord Willas' heir, Alester, and Alester's own young son Lorent had remained in Highgarden, but his second son Osmund would be arriving shortly with the King's retinue, the newest member of the Kingsguard. Lyonel's family stood with them, Lord Steffon holding his well-bundled daughter Argella on his shoulder. His wife Alyssa, another of Luke's 'aunts', was inside the castle, currently being tracked down by her sister and Lucaerys' wife.

House Mallister, new to their roles as Lord Paramount's, was interspersed with the nobles high and low in the courtyard. The longtime lords of Seagard had fought the Ironborn for generations, and had been granted dominion over the ravaged Iron Islands after King Aegon, Lord Aemon and Princess Daenerys had bathed them in dragonfire during the Cleansing seventeen years past. Lord Jason had been the first Mallister to reign from the half-destroyed Pyke, abdicating Seagard to his second son Kyle as he and his heir Patrek, the current lord, began the settling of their new home. It was a tough business, for the Ironborn smallfolk often rose against their Faith of the Seven overlords, but with few noble Ironborn houses left the revolts never grew to anything the Mallisters couldn't handle. The integration of the Iron Islands to the mainstream of Westerosi politics would be a long process, but Luke was certain the capable Eagles of Seagard would see the job done.

Only two of the Lord Paramount's wouldn't make the trip to Winterfell. Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King, was managing the Iron Throne in the absence of King Aegon, and had deferred representing the Lions of Lannister to his son and heir Jaime, who was still travelling north alongside his mentor Lord Aemon Targaryen of the Golden Tooth. Word around the capital was that the Halfman was in declining health, his age and dwarfism beginning to take their toll on the Giant of Lannister. Luke knew those rumors were in fact true; what his contacts in King's Landing didn't tell him Lord Tyrion himself did, for Lucaerys and the incredibly smart Imp had formed a friendship. It would be a sad day for Westeros when the Lord of the Westerlands died, but that day seemed to be drawing ever nearer. It broke Lucaerys' heart.

The other Great House representative not attending would be the chief Martell of Dorne, which was not surprising. Princess Arianne was a smart and diplomatic ruler, but Dorne was about as far from Winterfell as Westeros got. Regardless, her younger brother Trystane and her bastard son Aller Sand had sailed to White Harbor to represent their House, having joined the still-travelling Arryns of the Vale when they had also sailed into the city from Gulltown.

Luke smiled again as he watched the dozens of nobles laughing and talking negotiating. The coming weeks were bound to be one hell of a time.

Daenella found him not long after, carrying their silver-haired and indigo-eyed son in her arms. Behind her came his squire and half-brother, Alaric Rykker, making funny faces at Baela whom he carried in his arms. Luke's mother Myrcella Langward had remarried his father Renlor's childhood friend Aelor Rykker a few years after Ren had fallen at the Second Battle of the Trident. They said the future Lord of Hollard Hall looked much like his grandfather Alaric Langward had when he too was four and ten, tall and thin, though this Alaric had the golden hair of their mother as opposed to the black locks of the other Langwards and Rykkers. His twin brother Dontos—twins were strong in the Lannister-Langward bloodline, none could deny that—followed closely behind, identical in nearly every physical way to Alaric, though the former was dour of personality and the latter as gregarious as his father had once been.

Luke took Baelor from Danella, nuzzling the toddler's soft silver hair and eliciting a delighted giggle from the heavily-bundled child. His younger half-brothers stopped to either side of him, making Luke feel as short as Tyrion Lannister. While Lucaerys' father and both grandfathers had been tall men, Alaric Langward six and a half feet and Aelor and Renlor a few inches shy of that mark, Luke himself hadn't inherited it, being an inch shy of six feet. But while he hadn't gotten the height of his father or grandfathers, he had been gifted with the broad shoulders and muscled build of Aelor, almost twice as broad as his rail-thin younger brothers.

Alaric spoke first. "You've never told us, brother; are you going to participate in the melee?"

Dontos elbowed his ribs none-too-gently. "That's not how you address him. Luke may be our brother but he is also our liege lord and the man whom we're squiring for."

Alaric returned the elbow with a one-handed shove, also none-too-gentle. "How many times do we have to have this conversation? He's our _brother_ first."

"No, he's our _liege_ first you imbecile."

" _Imbecile?_ "

"Enough!" Luke cut in before it could escalate into a pissing contest between the two, his voice authoritative and firm. His squires/brothers instantly desisted, both having to clamp their mouths shut around the insults they had been about to hurl at one another. Daenella was barely containing her smile at the twins' bickering, his wife always finding their exchanges humorous. _I once found them humorous too, until their training matches became more about practicing their wit than their swordsmanship._ "I haven't decided yet. When I do, I assure you you'll be the first to know."

Alaric wasn't happy enough with that answer it seemed, for he continued speaking. "Well, even if you don't, are you opposed to _us_ entering? I think my brother and I would make quite the deadly duo."

"If you can remain silent for more than five minutes I may consider it." Inwardly though Luke knew the answer was already no. Melees were much more dangerous than jousting, particular the vicious ones of the north. Most of the Kingsguard would be participating, as would Prince Aelor and Ser Melwys Celtigar, as well as dozens of other notable fighters. The twins were good and Luke was no slouch himself, but he knew his limitations and the limitations of his brothers; the level of competition in the coming melee was far above their respective levels.

He was saved from whatever smart response Alaric had been about to give—for their certainly would have been one, Luke had no doubt—by the clatter and clop of an approaching party. The disorganized mass of noble bodies burst into action, by some black magic beyond Lucaerys' comprehension metamorphosing into even lines of waiting nobles in only a matter of moments. Lord Brandon was center of it all, as was his right as the hosting Lord. The other Lord Paramount's and their families were spread to either side, with lesser nobility behind them. Lucaerys' chosen position perpendicular to the Starks and other Great Houses but still in the front was perfect for his family; they were Targaryens, after all, though his holdings were a duchy and not a region.

The Royal Party was led through Winterfell's gates by Lord Commander Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, the greatsword Dawn at the aging knight's side. Behind him rode two other Kingsguard side-by-side, Sers Alex Bulwer and Alex Rollingford, known as Red Alex and Blue Alex respectively for their birth house's colors. Behind them was a line of Targaryen retainers, twenty of them riding two abreast. This lead party turned their horses to both sides, forming a gauntlet that five figures rode through the center of.

Luke already had Ser Arthur pegged as the winner of the melee unless he was forced to face down Prince Aelor, in which case the Sword of the Morning would yield as his position demanded. Despite the age creeping up on the legendary knight he was still the greatest swordsman alive, with only one man truly skilled enough to challenge him. That man was one of the next five figures, a crimson dragon on his shield the only embellishment to his pure white Kingsguard armor. Baelon Blooddragon was said to be an embodiment of his father's two most prominent sides, the great warrior and the half-mad Targaryen. Grim, silent and perhaps even more ruthless a fighter than Luke's grandfather had been, the infamous knight was also the most trusted man in King Aegon's retinue, as loyal to the King and his family as any man ever could be.

If Blooddragon had been participating in the melee, Luke wouldn't have been so certain of Ser Arthur Dayne's victory. But Baelon hadn't participated in a tourney, be it jousting or the melee, in over six years, since that faithful day at Rosby. All agreed it was a freak accident; there was no way Baelon could have made his lance split in just the right spot for the remaining half to slip under his brother Daemon's helm, stabbing through his neck and killing him. No one, not even Daemon's young widow Daena—Daenella's twin—blamed the knight of the Kingsguard. Luke had been there, though he was still a young squire to King Aegon, and had watched in confused awe as Baelon never said or word or let a single emotion cross his face as his brother's lifeless body was carried from the tilting yard.

But the Blooddragon had yielded his next tilt that day before it could even be announced, and had never participated in a tourney since.

As it was, the Blooddragon dismounted first out of the party of royals, even as all others present—Luke included—sank on one knee. The Kingsguard assisted his sister Princess Vaella, stern-faced but beautiful, off of her mount—the future Queen hated carriages and loved the saddle—as the other three dismounted their own stallions. One was Ser Melwys Celtigar, consort to Princess Daenerys. The second was young Prince Vaekar Targaryen, eight years old and letting his violet eyes look over the sea of knelt people as if he had seen it all of his young life. _He has, of course._

The last figure was a spitting image of a younger King Aegon the Sixth. An inch or two taller than Luke with an athletic build, Prince Aelor of Dragonstone looked like the perfect Valyrian royal. Dressed all in black save for the Targaryen three-headed dragon stitched across his chest, a ruby-pommeled sword—mirrored after the fabled blade of his namesake for certain—was at his side. His silver hair was to his shoulders, violet eyes peering out of a clean-shaven, sculpted face. The stallion he had ridden was black of hide and as mean as his father's dragon, a descendant of the fabled destrier Warrior that had fallen alongside Luke's father at the Second Battle of the Trident.

Vaella stepped to his side, and Luke was struck by how equally beautiful and royal the pair looked.

Aelor stepped forward with a gregarious smile, beckoning them all rise with both baritone voice and waved hand. He stopped before Lord Brandon, reaching out to grasp the Wise Wolf's hand.

"Your Grace, Winterfell is yours."

Aelor smiled one of his many smiles. Luke knew the Prince had a smile for every occasion, some genuine and most not. This happened to be a genuine one. "Thank you, Lord Stark. Winterfell grows more beautiful each time I visit it." He turned to address all the nobles in the courtyard. "You'll have to forgive me, for I was so excited that I rode ahead and left most of the royal party." A course of expected laughter filled the castle bailey. Aelor let it finish as was also expected, ever the excellent diplomat. "My mother, son and cousins are a few miles back, along with House Arryn. As for my father…" A smile, this one also genuine, crossed his Valyrian lips. "I think you're about to find out."

As if on cue, the roar of a dragon filled the sky.

 _Aelor certainly has a flare for the dramatic. I can't blame him, for it has quite the effect on us all._

Despite having seen them a thousand times over the years, Lucaerys still looked skywards along with every other head in the courtyard. Moments later a massive black form, winged and muscular with streaks of crimson in his scales, zoomed overhead to both delighted and terrified squeals. A smaller but still monstrous form, white and gold, was close on its heels, and finally a green and bronze brought up the rear, clearly in no rush. Balerion was still double the size of Aelon and Rhaegal, be it from having hunted earlier or just his nature, but all three were bigger than anything anyone would have dreamed of years earlier. Though they were the only flying dragons still, Rhaegal had lain one egg a year for four years straight, and to the realm's delight the first had hatched a mere half year earlier. The dragon, small and red, had seemed to bond with Princess Daenerys' youngest child, Prince Vaelon, who had named the dragon Raedes, or Scorpion. A childish name perhaps, but the dragon and the blood of the dragon seemed to be near soulmates.

Luke couldn't deny he was jealous of a boy of seven.

The dragons had been a brilliant show, but also one that had been planned for. While the dragons and particularly Balerion still did whatever they wished quite often, their bonds with their riders had given the dragonriders much more control over their beasts since the early years. An area away from the army of tents encamped outside of Winterfell but close enough for the dragonriders to control their mounts if necessary had been prepared, and it was from there that the King and his fellow Targaryen dragonlords rode horses into Winterfell's courtyard.

The King had always looked kingly, that none could deny. The spiked crown of King Maekar the First and Jaehaerys the Second covered long silver hair, which in turn framed a bearded Valyrian face. Also dressed all in black save for the crimson inner-lining of his cloak, Aegon the Sixth stood tall and straight, back straight and Blackfyre by his side as he strode from his black stallion to Lord Brandon, who had led the gathered nobles in kneeling again. He walked with the confidence and command of a man who had ruled an empire for nearly all of his life, and his charisma was as strong now as it had been in his youth. Luke wished for all the world he could look half as noble as his cousin did.

 _It was my grandfather who taught him that. Perhaps one day I will learn it myself._

Luke watched from his kneeling position as Ser Melwys swept Dany, as beautiful at near forty as she had been at near twenty, off of her horse in a display that made Daenella sigh in a small swoon, a sound echoed by many a kneeling lady. Lord Aemon, growing portly around the middle and still uncomfortable in large crowds, had instantly walked to Vaella's side, engaging his younger sister in conversation as the King bid the nobles to rise once more.

Formalities were exchanged, great displays made, but before long the groups intermeshed, soon joined by the Arryns and the rest of Lord Aemon's party. More nobles were gathered in Winterfell's courtyard than had visited King's Landing in the last half a year.

With an inward twinge of delight, Lucaerys stepped into the fray of negotiations, both of deals and of relationships, that had begun in earnest already, ears out for anything that sounded remotely like what Varys had sent word for him to be wary of.

He had a job to do, one he was good at and one he oddly loved.

He was, after all, Loyal Lucaerys.


	3. Chapter 3: The Dangers of Blood II

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the support!

Shoutouts to reviewers Fapman, The-Cat-Who-Walks-By-Himself, timijaf, The Stark in the North, nanold and guests C.E.W and coldblue. Y'all rock.

It was great to see so many familiar names reviewing and following! As always, I hope you enjoy and _review_ this chapter.

* * *

"Your wife is a beautiful lady, Lord Lucaerys, and as accomplished a dancer as I have ever seen." Luke smiled, for both statements were entirely true. His wife had her silver hair half up and half down, trailing down the open back of her equally silver dress with its white lacings. The mass of one color may have been seen as garish, but something about it combined with Daenella's striking violet eyes made it look terrific instead of tasteless.

And even if that hadn't been enough, her broad smile would have made her beautiful if she had been wearing only a sack.

"Thank you, my lord. I must say the same of Lady Sansa, for she seems to be the only woman on the floor as tireless as my Ella." That too was true, for Sansa Bolton with her traditional beauty hadn't left the floor since the dancing began, long after many younger lords and ladies had gone for a respite. The Lady of the Dreadfort and the Lady of Duskendale were currently in cahoots, laughing together as they simultaneously dragged half-unwilling partners onto the floor, Sansa her younger brother Lord Brandon and Daenella the quiet Lord Aemon.

The sight, both of Daenella's smiling face and sage Lord Aemon's terrified one, had Luke grinning like a madman as he turned towards Sansa's husband, Lord Domeric Bolton. Double Lucaerys' own age, the powerful northern vassal had long black hair with a heavy sprinkling of gray tied back into a braid, his eyes an odd pale that he had inherited from his father Roose. Of average height and features, the head of House Bolton was mostly unremarkable save for those eyes, and he near disappeared when standing next to his radiant wife. But while he didn't stand out physically, the Lord of the Dreadfort was a strong-willed, intelligent man, trusted by Lord Brandon as a diplomat and advisor. That was impressive in and of itself, for the history between the two men's houses was less than amicable.

But the Lord of the Dreadfort was smiling, a real smile by Lucaerys' usually-accurate estimation. Two other figures were with him, red from dancing with their arms interlocked, and Lord Bolton extended a hand towards them both. "I believe you remember my son and heir Royce, and of course Lady Alysanne."

Luke smiled, extending a hand to shake Royce's. The Bolton heir was tall, with the coloring of his mother, and reputedly an excellent archer and swordsman. "Of course. I anticipate you'll do well in the melee, Lord Royce." Luke turned to the shorter, lithe form beside him, taking one of her hands and pressing a kiss to the back of it. Alysanne Targaryen, blue eyed like her wilding mother and black haired like her royal father, grinned a familiar grin. "And _you_ , cousin, grow more beautiful by the day."

Even as he was greeting his kinswoman and her new husband, Luke noted the consistent shake in Lord Bolton's extended hand. _That_ was a fascinating story, though it had all occurred years before Luke had come to have any role in the kingdoms politics. Ramsay Snow, the only sibling—bastard or otherwise—of Domeric, had been infamously mad, though he had had the terrifying ability to hide it under layers of diplomacy and charm. The Bastard of Bolton had poisoned his elder brother on their first meeting before the War of the Three Kings, though that fact hadn't been made known until years later. It had nearly killed Lord Domeric, as was its intent, and the poison had left a semi-permanent tremor in the Lord of the Dreadfort's hands that periodically would flare up, as it appeared to be now.

It was rumored that Lord Domeric, having desperately wanted a sibling, hadn't believed his half-brother to be responsible. It was also rumored that his father, Lord Roose, had. Whatever the two men had or hadn't believed, no action had been taken against Ramsay. It wasn't until after Roose had died at the Wall and Lord Domeric had married Sansa and returned north with the other northern families that the Bastard of Bolton tried again. It had been a surprise coup, carried out in the dead of the night, Ramsay and twenty men trying to seize the Dreadfort from within. It would have worked as well, for Lord Domeric still didn't believe his brother responsible for the 'illness' that had left permanent effects on him and had thusly been unprepared for any attack from the inside, but Lady Sansa's direwolf Lady had alerted her master that something was off. Sansa had woken Domeric and barred herself and the infant Royce in their chambers, as Lord Domeric roused his men as Ramsay and his engaged them.

Near fifty Bolton men-at-arms and servants had died before Ramsay was subdued. Lord Domeric had nearly flayed his brother alive in his wrath, but Lady Sansa had urged him to leave the matter in the hands of her brother, in an attempt to both strengthen the northern lords' belief in their young leader and spare her husband the stain of kinslaying. Lord Brandon at only six and ten had ridden to the Dreadfort and condemned Ramsay to die, following the old way of the North by beheading the unstable Snow himself.

But that was all the past, and this was the present. Luke knew Lord Domeric had more on his mind than a mere introduction, and after only a few moments of chatter with young Royce and Alysanne he urged them to dance once more. Luke was smiling at Bolton even before the two were out of earshot. "Tell me, my lord, what are you offering, furs or lumber?"

Domeric smiled back, not the least bit abashed. " _Iron_ , Lord Lucaerys. My vassal Lord Belthasar Locke and I have opened three mines on his land, and the returns have been quite impressive so far."

Luke cocked an eyebrow. "Aye, now that is something I can deal in."

And so they did.

Lord Domeric was not the first lord to approach him that night intent on making a trade deal, nor would he be the last. The Lighting of the Lions, the poetic name given to the brutal deed of the destruction of Lannisport at the hands of Luke's grandfather Aelor, had been terrible for the Lannisters but excellent for Duskendale. Nearly all of the evacuated civilians had resettled on the opposite coast, in the very home of the man who had burned theirs. They had brought with them their skills and trades, as well as their connections to foreign merchants and ports. The populations of Duskendale had tripled, and in the coming years so did it's revenues. Goldsmiths, spice traders, masons; all had rebuilt their lives and their trades under the warring white dragon banner, and had attracted traders from as far as Qarth to their home port. Now, near forty years later, Luke was reaping the benefits, as Lords near and far wished to have access to the abundance of goods found within the two-walled city.

And he was more than prepared to make them pay for it.

Lucaerys' grandfather had been an unparalleled warrior and his father a promising swordsman himself, but that was not where Luke's true skills lay. Oh, he was decent enough with a mace and better with a lance, but he knew his limitations well. Lucaerys' had a mind for trade and stewardship, and had honed his diplomatic skills to assist in those endeavors. Even now, when he hadn't been in his home city for more than a fortnight over the past half a year, he could tell you exactly what was being produced and in what quantities, tell you which of the silversmiths in his city had the best prices and which had the best work, two facts that rarely ever found a home in the same business. He knew the amount of Myrish lace expected to arrive in the next month, knew the individual dressmaker's part of said shipment was going to, and knew the trader and guards caravanning it east to Harrenhal. He could tell you the exact figures from the last three years of Duskendale trade and the exact amount of coin he had paid to the crown in trade taxes from the last five. Business, for what it was, was booming.

But even as Luke struck more than one deal and turned down plenty of others, he kept his mission in the back of his mind. He used small talk—which the opposite lords likely thought part of a negotiating tactic—to sniff around his true questions, leaving small directory statements and feelers. Most either had no idea and continued on oblivious that the conversation had a double meaning or were very good at hiding their true thoughts, though there were a few who reacted as if they knew more than they let on. Luke was careful not to push too hard or make himself seem unduly interested in the lords of the latter category, and made a point of returning to the dance floor more than once, trying to appear for all the world like a young man simultaneously enjoying a feast and using it as an opportunity to secure assets for his family.

It was rather easy to pull off, for it was true. He _was_ enjoying the feast, and he _was_ using it as an opportunity to advance his own lordships interest; he just also happened to be investigating for the King of the Iron Throne.

The King in question knew perfectly well that Lucaerys was carrying out his interests, but even a trained intriguer would never have known, for the Prince That Was Promised seemed to be having as fine a time as anyone present. King Aegon was past forty, the blessings of youth having for the most part left him, but he still danced as he had when he had been seven and ten. His smile had lost none of its charm as he first spun Rhaella Targaryen of the Reds—meaning one of the Targaryens living in King's Landing, and in this case the eldest child of Princess Daenerys Stormborn—and then Rhaella Targaryen of the Greens—the Targaryens of the Golden Tooth, in this case Lord Aemon's daughter. There were three other branches of the Targaryen dynasty, the Golds of Summerhall and young Lady Viserra, the Greys of the New North and Prince Jaehaerys, and Lucaerys' own Whites of Duskendale, each identified by the color of the dragon or dragons on their banners.

Luke imagined Aelor would have been proud to see how secure and widespread his family had become, for at one point in the Dragon of Duskendale's life the royal bloodline had been reduced to himself, an old brother of the defunct Night's Watch and five children, barely removed from a war that had sought to kill them all.

Saera near dragged him from amidst negotiations with Lord Edwyn Mallister of the Seagard Mallisters, and he didn't manage to escape the floor before he had danced with her, his laughing wife Daenella, Lady Sansa, Shireen Baratheon, his cousin Aelora Tyrell and a handful of other ladies of higher and lower nobility. Even Queen Aemma insisted on a dance, though both her health and spirits had been dampened since the birth of Vaekar. The labor had nearly killed her, and the maester had been certain she would never conceive another child. The entire process drew terrifying parallels to King Aegon's mother Elia Martell, whose own difficulties in the birthing bed had, when paired with her husband's desperate desire for another daughter, helped lay the foundation for the civil war that had claimed the lives of two Targaryen kings.

Although in hindsight that seemed to have been a blessing of the Seven, for if neither king had died when they did Prince Aelor would never has risen to power, and who knew if the world would look anything like it did now.

He negotiated, he drank, he talked and he listened. He was there when Lords Forrester and Whitehill nearly shed blood under their liege lord's roof, only talked down by the icy and firm commands of Lord Brandon. He watched as Florian Blackwood and Talla Bracken danced in clear adoration of the other, to the fury of both their fathers. He sang along with the crowd when the singer from White Harbor led a round of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair._

And, a long time later, he carried his inebriated wife into their chambers, where hours earlier Baelor and Baela had been put to bed. Luke and his family had been awarded spacious chambers within Winterfell itself, not quite as impressive as those for the Lord Paramounts but better than many other lords of equal ranking to Lucaerys had been given. His position as a surrogate brother to the Lady Winterfell helped of course, as did his surname and his status as a favorite of the king.

It was through those chamber doors that he near fell, Daenella wrapped around him, adding her drunken chuckles to his baritone ones.

"The twins are asleep," his wife said in a low, slurred tone after Luke had deposited her on the bed and turned to close and bar the door. Another luxury of their chambers, for the children and their nursemaid had a separate chamber to themselves, separated by a thick door towards Luke's right.

"Aye," he agreed as he closed the heavy oak and slid the iron bar into place. "Mary took them when she took Prince Vae—" His ability to breath was suddenly gone, forcing the last syllable of what he had to say out in a hoarse half-whisper. "— _kar_."

Daenella was much faster at getting out of clothes than she had ever been at getting into them; Lucaerys swore it was some kind of long-lost Valyrian magic, sorcery of the most sinfully helpful variety. In the time it had taken Luke to drop her on the furs, walk to the door and close and bar it, she had somehow escape the latch of white and silver. It was a most impressive feat given the complexity of the ties and the fact that had his wife had downed one or ten too many glasses of wine. She was waiting wearing only a smile and her underclothes by the time he suffered his shortness of breath, eyebrow raised in invitation. Her voice was breathy and sultry beneath that sinful smile, indigo eyes positively smoldering with a fire that consumed Luke entirely.

"That wasn't my point."

He had his lips on her neck with her hands fighting the ties of his breeches when the knock sounded at the door. "Ignore it," his wife urged, pressing his face back to its original position on her collarbone when he began to turn.

Luke groaned, disentangling himself with a sigh. "You know I can't."

His wife ran a hand down the front of his breeches, biting her lip. "Then get _rid_ of him."

Luke opened the door barefoot and bare-chested, giving not a damn what the person on the other side thought about it. He cursed out loud when it turned out to be Ser Arthur Dayne, his white armor glowing in the relative dark of the hall. _Of course. Of bloody course._

The Sword of the Morning raised an eyebrow at Luke's exclamation and appearance, glancing over the Lord of Duskendale's shoulder. His expression quickly became a sympathetic grimace when he saw the naked woman waiting behind him. "The King has requested your presence, Lord Lucaerys."

Luke glanced back at Daenella before giving the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard a near _begging_ look. "Can't he wait until morning? Or at least half an hour…"

Ser Arthur shook his head sadly. "You know the King. When there's something to be done, he does it then and there, and he _hates_ delays." The Dornishman shrugged and smiled in apology. "Even understandable ones."

Luke looked between his naked wife and the waiting Kingsguard thrice before he gave a long, pained sigh. "At least let me put on a shirt."

* * *

 _Loyal fucking Lucaerys, defender of both the crown and my own bloody chastity._

He followed behind the legendary swordsman as they made their way through the darkened Northern fortress. The revelry was done for the night; his wife, who he could be at this very moment bedding, had been one of the last to leave the floor, and by default Lucaerys had been as well. The other nobles had retired to their quarters in Winterfell Winter Town or the city of pavilions and tents outside the walls, leaving only servants to walk the hours of the night, attacking the evidence of debauchery strewn across the castle. _The servants and those like me. One's duty can be a nasty business, and the opposite of pleasurable._

The Alex's, both Red and Blue, stood to either side of the door to the King's grand guest chambers as they passed through it, and the Blooddragon stood within. Six other figures were waiting as well, five sitting and one hovering over another's shoulder.

Grandmaester Dagmer was relatively young for his loft position, only five and thirty and already in his fourth year as the Grandmaester of the Iron Throne. Born on Old Wyk in the Iron Islands, he had sailed to Oldtown and the Citadel as a child, three years before the Cleansing. That had been particularly fortunate for the bastard-born, slightly built man, for the damage and destruction caused from the dragonfire had been particularly vicious on the former seat of House Drumm.

He currently hovered around the left shoulder of King Aegon, draping a cloth over the old arrow wound the King had taken at the Second Battle of the Trident. Several other towels lay close to the fire roaring in the hearth, heating as the one on Aegon's shoulder already had. The King looked up, taking little notice of the healer's ministrations, as Lucaerys entered and gave a customary bow.

"Your Grace. I see the dancing has taken its toll on even you."

Aegon grunted. "Indeed it has, not to mention this weather. I thought I had left snow and temperatures smaller than my grandson's age behind me twenty years ago." Aegon smiled at another figure in the room, seated across from him with his head in his hands. "Though I dare say my son has it worse than I."

Prince Aelor leaned back in his chair with a great groan, his face one of pure misery. "Bloody Umbers. It's like trying to outdrink a fish. They drank me under the table so quickly I'm already half hungover, and I'm still bloody _drunk_."

Another man at the table laughed , his black beard and curly hair despite his relative youth containing more and more gray each time Luke saw him—which wasn't often. Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Lord of the New North and always more wolf than dragon, had travelled south of the Neck only three times since the conclusion of the Second War for the Dawn, for the Cleansing of the Isles and the births of Aelor and Vaekar. The son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark, the latter of whom had passed just the past year of a fever in her only son's castle of Northguard, pointed at Luke with the pinky of his left hand, the only finger he had left on it. The others and the thumb had been lost in the snows of the meanest winter Westeros had seen in centuries, when the Prince and his future wife had led an army of refugee children to Winterfell from the fresh ruins of the Wall. "Never try to outdrink a northerner, Luke. Mayhaps _you_ will heed that advice, for my nephew surely did not."

Another figure, far more attractive than any of the others, chuckled. The Mother of Dragons was truly a beauty of no equal, even with the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. Luke had always had half a crush and half a worship complex for the dragonrider of Aelon, who held more power in the running of the kingdoms than any woman in Westerosi history, even his own grandmother Alysanne, who had retired long before this impromptu meeting. "I imagine he wished he had now, and he _certainly_ will wish he had come morning."

The Prince of Dragonstone gave them an unmistakable and certainly unprincely hand gesture, eliciting a laugh from the other Targaryens in the room. _Save for Baelon of course. I don't believe I've ever seen my uncle laugh in all my days._ King Aegon gestured towards another chair, and Lucaerys move to take it. The final Targaryen, his quiet and wise uncle Aemon, slid his untouched pitcher of water to his nephew, which Luke accepted with a thankful nod. "How does the Queen fair, Your Grace? I noticed she left quite early, and I see she isn't here."

"My wife was worn down early in the evening. It is common for her to tire quickly ever since Vaekar." Luke knew the King held no ill will or disappointment for either his second and youngest child or his wife. He of all people was in position to understand the difficulty that could occur in the birthing bed; his mother Elia Martell had nearly died giving birth to him, and his grandmother Rhaella had had more than her fair share of difficulties in the birthing chamber. "Besides, I wouldn't wish for Aemma to hear what you might have to say."

Lucaerys looked around, to the very walls themselves. "Are you sure you wish for Winterfell itself to hear what I have to say?"

Aegon smirked, the smirk of approval Luke had treasured as a child and then as a squire. "Well done, though I must point out that this is the north, not King's Landing. These walls hold back the cold and hold in the heat; they don't have spies in them. Besides, you're not my only operative, even in the deep north. We are safe to discuss whatever we wish here."

Luke nodded, digesting that bit of information in the back of his mind. "As you say, Your Grace. The grumblings seem to be coming mostly from the eastern Reach and western Stormlands. Lord Poddingfield's heir gave the most visible reaction to my prodding, and while Lord Selmy was much better at hiding his thoughts I believe he also has some affiliation with this rogue faction. Ser Aladore Ashford also gave some physical indications he may have some knowledge."

King Aegon's face gave away nothing, violet eyes on Luke's near identical ones. "And the Lord Paramounts of those regions?"

That the Promised would even asked showed how seriously he was taking these grumblings that may in the end be nothing at all. "I do not believe any of the Lord Paramount's or their families are involved. As you know, both the Reach and Stormlands have close ties to House Targaryen, and have no reason to show anything but support towards Your Grace."

"Many of the lords who fought for Viserys had no reason to show anything but support for myself and your grandfather, but it didn't stop them then and it may not stop them now. I will not take risks of another War of the Three Kings, even if I do have dragons now when I didn't then."

Aelor spoke up then, eyes slowly clearing from the amount of ale he had ingested early in the evening. "I believe you may have just named the root of this disease. Poddingfield, Harvest Hall, Ashford…they are all three relatively close to Summerfield and _Daena_."

The heir to the Iron Throne spat the name like a curse, and Luke couldn't quite blame him. It had been the blessing of the Seven that Lucaerys had been married to sweet, loving Daenella and not her older, jaded twin. The _other_ bastard of Viserys the Betrayer was a mass of pent up anger and near worship of her dead father—no number of tutors, mentors or attempts by family members to integrate her had made so much of a dent. She was smart enough to keep from vocalizing her near-hatred of those that had helped befall her father, and seemed to have a lever inside her that gave her more charm than Lord Bronn of Bronzegate, but the family knew of her true beliefs. She was close to none and rivals with most of them, and even good-natured Daemon, the uncle who had been unfortunately saddled with her, had nearly killed her more than once. She had named their only daughter, born four moons after Daemon's death, the questionable name of Viserra, and had instantly remarried a man of her own choosing, the son and heir of Lord Bowen Meadows, Lord of the Grassy Vale.

It was worth noting that Lord Bowen had dithered when the Reach called its levies, neither swearing for Viserys nor marching to his liege lord's aide. They had been spared in the aftermath of the wars, but had been viewed with suspicion ever since, a suspicion Dany brought to the forefront of this conversation. "And close to Grassfield Keep."

Jaehaerys looked between his brother and aunt, face waiting for an explanation they didn't give. "What are we expecting, a _rebellion?_ No, not enough if any would come to their aide."

Aemon spoke up then, with his slight build and growing gut looking nothing like the man who had flown his dragon over Orkmont and turned it into charred ashes. "And, with no disrespect meant to Dany, their only claimant is a woman."

The Blooddragon's gravelly voice chimed in from his standing positon, Ser Arthur having gone to stand beside him. "A _bitch_ of a woman to boot."

Aelor nodded, still in clear discomfort. "Aye. While her charm can be potent, only a fool can't see it for the manipulative tool it is."

The King was staring at the table in thought as Grandmaester Dagmer once again changed the hot press on his shoulder, though he clearly had been paying attention to the conversation. "Never underestimate the capability of men to be utter fools, Aelor. I've made the mistake more than once and paid for it each time."

Dany placed her hand over Luke's. "Anything else, Lucaerys?"

"No, Princess. I have a few other lords who reacted strangely to my prodding, and will have a list for the King come morning, but I believe them to be unrelated to this potential conspiracy."

Jaehaerys leaned forward. "And just what _is_ this conspiracy? We all know they have no chance of winning a war, and they must know it too, which leaves the question of just what it is they want."

Aemon nodded. "Jae is right. Perhaps if we knew what their goal was, we'd have a better of time of discerning just who is involved."

Luke held his hands up. "That I could not say. It is beyond my knowledge at this time."

His King and mentor looked up from the table. "I have confidence it is within your capability. You're one of my most loyal lords, Lucaerys, and one of my most powerful. Men respect you and gravitate towards you, and you have no small amount of skill in diplomacy."

Dany smiled. "Thanks to myself and mother, I would like to point out."

Aegon continued on, though he gave a shadow of a grin at Dany's statement. "I must ask you to put your skills to work for me again, son. By the end of the festivities here, I want to know the men on your list as if they were on my own blood. Their friends, their rivals, their lovers…all of it."

Luke took it for the dismissal it was, rising to his feet and bowing to his elder family members. "Of course, Your Grace. I will not fail you."

Aegon smiled the approving smile again. "You never have."

Luke turned towards the door, wondering if Daenella would still be awake and willing to continue what had been interrupted. This, the intrigue and mystery, made him feel positively alive. _Loyal Lucaerys, defender of the Crown._

He aimed to earn that title.


	4. Chapter 4: The Dangers of Blood III

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the support!

Shoutouts to reviewers timijaf, gsaint413, The-Cat-Who-Walks-By-Himself, tfranco9, The Flash 2 and guest coldblue. Y'all rock.

As always, I hope you enjoy and _review_ this update.

* * *

"You look much like your grandfather."

Lucaerys turned from where his half-brother Alaric was fastening on Luke's breastplate, looking to the front of his pavilion. A fat, round man stood at the entrance, smiling a genuine smile on a chubby face, a young boy of five or six peering out from behind his leg. Luke recognized the father for both his girth and the sword slung over one shoulder, though the Seven knew it was unlikely he could wield the lofty blade with any skill. Luke smiled, striding forward, the unfastened breastplate clunking. "Lord Tarly, it is a pleasure."

The Lord of the Westmarch accepted Luke's proffered hand, shaking it in a surprisingly firm grip for such a scholarly looking sort—not that Luke was necessarily surprised, for his uncle Aemon was classically erudite but had turned an island to ash in his youth. Lord Samwell Tarly had close ties and friendships with the Targaryen dynasty, his father having served both King Aegon and the Dragon of Duskendale in times of war. Sam had formed a close friendship with Prince Jaehaerys and Aemon, and a lesser one with Luke's father Renlor. Though he remained in the Reach these days, Luke still had read a good number of his impressive histories, which detailed much of the War of the Three Kings and the Second Battle for the Dawn, during which both Sam's father and younger brother had been killed.

"The pleasure is mine, Lord Luke. Your uncle Aemon speaks highly of you."

"As he does of _you_ , my lord." He eyed the pommel of the Valyrian steel sword strapped across the obese man's back. "Are you participating in the melee today?"

Samwell laughed, belly jiggling. "You and I both know I wouldn't make it very far in that, now don't we? No, I intend to enjoy the melee from the safety of the royal box, where the King has given me and my son Jon the honor of sitting." Samwell turned, ushering his son in front of him and resting his hands on his small shoulders. Luke smiled down at the black haired Jon, whose eyes seemed entranced by the warring white dragons on the black steel of Lucaerys' breastplate. "No, I merely wished to stop and give you my best wishes." The Lord's already soft face softened. "Your father and grandfather were always more than kind to me, even when my own father was not. They were good men, both of them, no matter what stories you may hear to the contrary."

Tarly smiled down at the young boy to his front. "Well, we'd best be off now shouldn't we, Jon? It's never wise to keep a Targaryen waiting. The best of luck to you, Lord Lucaerys. I have no doubt you'll make your father proud."

Lord Sam had barely made it out of earshot, Luke watching after him in thought, before another voice spoke, quieter but commanding of attention. "He's right you know. Aelor would near to burst at the sight of you now."

Luke was smiling before he laid eyes on her, having slipped into his pavilion in the short time he was conversing with Lord Tarly. Alysanne Lefford had more gray in her hair than brown these days, and the beauty she once had had lost its edge, but she was still a handsome woman who wielded much influence in Westerosi politics. She was standing between Alaric and Dontos, the former waiting somewhat impatiently to finish dressing Luke in his armor while the latter was checking the strength of the straps of Luke's shield for the fourth time. Alysanne's eyes were far away, locked on the white dragons on Luke's chest. "You've always looked most like him when you're in armor."

Lucaerys returned to the middle of the pavilion, Alaric returning to tying the clasp with a grumble. "That's by design you know, grandmother. You were the one who helped the smith make this plate as close to my grandfather's as it could be."

Alysanne looked up to him smiling, eyes returning to her grandson's violet ones. "Aye, that I did. I'm just thankful you don't have to don yours nearly as often as Aelor did his." She cocked an eyebrow at him, momentarily staving off some of the wrinkles that were growing more predominant on her still-pretty face. "Speaking of which, I thought you weren't going to participate in today's melee."

Luke shrugged. "I hadn't made up my mind; now I have."

Alysanne didn't look convinced. "And just what made that decision for you?"

 _The King. Daenerys. Jaehaerys. Literally everyone but me._ Luke let his eyes move from Alaric to Dontos, both focused on their tasks. "Daenella. She was irritated that I didn't intend to fight for her honor, despite being the reason I didn't even get out of the feasting chamber until early this morning."

Alysanne nodded, the slight quirk in her expression letting Luke know she had picked up on his reluctance to discuss it in front of his young half-brothers. Alaric and Dontos were certainly loyal to Luke, he had no doubts of that, but they were young men with the fondness young men often had for bragging and excessive alcohol. They were a bit too young as of yet to be trusted with the Crown's secrets, and certainly not trained enough in the ways of intrigue.

His grandmother however knew all about the game of thrones, having played it as de facto Queen for near twenty years and as regent of Duskendale for twenty more. The King and Princess Daenerys still often sought her council, and more than one of Lucaerys' 'diplomatic' missions had involved her. He wouldn't be surprised if she knew all about the potential factionalist's threat, and may well be pulling her own strings. She loved him dearly, perhaps even more than she loved her other grandchildren due to Luke being the closest link to her firstborn Renlor, but he had no doubts she kept her own secrets.

Any odd pause in the conversation—there really wasn't one, for Alysanne and Luke were both much too polished to have allowed one to truly grow—was interrupted by Alaric, who was tying the last fastener on Luke's left shoulder. "What is this idea of 'teams' in a melee anyway? I've never heard of that format in my life."

 _And you wouldn't have now, if not for the King making a request of Lord Brandon._ "Then I've made a mockery of your education, brother. It's not normal in the south per se, though not unprecedented. It has occurred often in the Northern melees throughout history however, even if single combatants are more the norm here as well. The Melee of the Dreadfort a thousand years before the Conquest was a particular instance of it."

Dontos spoke from the corner, where he was now checking the edge of the axe Luke would be using again. The younger of the Rykker twins had always been meticulous and thorough. "The heir to the King of Winter was slain by the heir to the Dreadfort, who was then slain in turn by the Stark Prince's uncle fighting on the Bolton's team. A war nearly broke out between the flayed man of Bolton and the direwolf of Stark."

Alaric glared at his brother. "Something of a know-it-all, are we?"

Dontos shrug, never looking away from his task. "Better than a know-nothing like yourself."

Luke stopped Alaric halfway to his brother. " _My helm_ , Alaric. Dontos, the axe is as sharp now as it was the first three times you checked. Even if it isn't, I'm not intending on killing anyone today." Luke stretched, his shoulders burning in protest. _I need to practice more; the Seven help me or I'll be half-dead ten minutes in_. "As we were discussing, though, I imagine this is more of an attempt by Lord Stark to be fair to Ser Arthur and the other Kingsguard. Everyone knows they cannot truly battle with Prince Aelor; by having them split among teams, the white knights have a chance to let others engage the Prince without having to yield should they come across him on the field."

Alysanne, having taken a seat at a chair and begun watching her grandson prepare for the mock battle, shrugged. "You have to hand it to Lord Brandon and Saera as it is; they managed to put together the teams quite quickly. There are hundreds of men participating today, and they only implemented the teams a few days ago."

The heir to Hollard Hall grunted. "Well, I'm not much of a fan of it, no matter how impressive a feat it is. I wouldn't like splitting my winnings among a team should I win, particularly if several of them were knocked out of the competition beforehand."

Alysanne ruffled his hair, Alaric ducking out of her reach in embarrassment. "Too bad you're not participating today; you'd teach them all, wouldn't you?"

Daenella floated in, looking immaculate despite having drunk an excess of alcohol for the third night in the row mere hours earlier. "Wasn't it _you_ , Alaric, who spoke of you and your brother being quite the duo mere days ago?" His wife, radiant as ever, greeted him with a kiss before setting her smirk on Alaric. If he hadn't been red before, the elder of the twins certainly was now.

Lucaerys decided to end his boisterous brother's suffering, looking to his wife and slipping an arm around her waist. "You look beautiful as always, my lady, an impressive feat considering your recent love of wine."

Daenella swatted him playfully. "I had to look stunning for my husband when he wins the melee. Plus, I needed to assure no maid tries to take you; you always look particularly striking in your armor." A silver ribbon materialized in her hand, and without preamble she began to tie it around his right bicep.

Luke laughed at her statement. "The only way your husband will be winning this melee is if Ser Arthur Dayne is a member of his team."

Daenella shot him a sultry glance. "As it just so happens, I took a gander at the steward's list. One Sword of the Morning, at your service." She rose to her tiptoes after fastening the ribbon tightly, whispering lowly where only he could hear her. "And if you win, I'll have one seven hells of a surprise waiting tonight."

He walked to the melee field with an anticipatory spring to his step.

Luke kissed his wife and hugged his grandmother as he left them at the side of the royal box where they would be watching the melee with the King. He bowed to his cousin, the Promised smiling back. Queen Aemma, Vaella and Vaekar were seated to his left, and Lord Brandon—the newborn Cellador Stark bundled in his arms—to his right. The King's guests, among them Lord Samwell and Prince Jaehaerys, were also seated there. Blooddragon stood behind the King on the dais, right hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The other Lord Paramounts and their families each had a box reserved for them, spreading in a wide half circle out from the Kings.

"Prepared to lose today, cousin?" Luke turned to the familiar voice, grinning back at the wide smile of Aelor. The Prince of Dragonstone swaggered up, left hand on the ruby pommel of his sheathed sword and right holding his helm under that arm. While the heir to the Iron Throne had based his weaponry on his namesake, his armor was all his own. The plate was black and crimson, and forged to look as if it were made of scales. Red dragon heads made up each shoulder plate, and others curled around the armor of his forearms. Another twisted on the front of his breastplate, and his helm was covered in another dragon head, red teeth jutting down on either side and in between the eyeholes. Ser Mychel Redfort stood slightly behind him, having been assigned rather than selected to the Prince's team, as was to be expected.

"I believe it is _you_ who will be doing the losing today, cousin."

Aelor shoved him lightly. "I've always been better than you with a blade."

Luke took no offense, for it was true. "Aye, maybe so, but I have a Sword of the Morning. He's better than both of us combined."

Aelor laughed, extending a hand which Luke accepted. "It'll be one hell of a fight now won't it? Best of luck to you, Luke."

Luke smiled, returning the best wishes before turning to seek out Lord Brandon's steward. Alaric and Dontos followed behind him, carrying his shield, axe and helm. They found the steward, a middle aged man named Harrion Woods, amidst an influx of men in various colors of armor and surcoats, l0oking haggard and overloaded despite the four Northmen assisting him. Luke slipped in, got directions to where his team was forming, and slipped out without causing the man too much strife.

There were ten men to a team, supposedly grouped together from a random selection process. For all but two of those teams that was the case, but Aelor of course had one of the Kingsguard, and for a good portion of Luke's team there had been no randomness to it at all.

The first man he saw when he approached where Woods had directed him was a familiar face above white Kingsguard armor, the greatsword Dawn being polished. Ser Arthur Dayne looked as calm as if he were merely preparing for a training session, not a melee—while they weren't intended to be deadly, many a man had been killed in the heat of the combat at the heart of one. The Sword of the Morning grinned at Lucaerys as he approached, knowing full well that their being assigned to the same team was no matter of chance. "Lord Lucaerys," he greeted. "An honor to fight beside you."

"The honor is mine, Lord Commander," Luke returned as he tightened the shield on his left arm. "If I hadn't have been confident in my chances beforehand, I certainly am now." Luke took his helm, complete with the famous white flames once worn by his grandfather, from Alaric, lowering it over his head. It was nearly identical to the helm that currently was displayed in the Dun Fort of Duskendale, minus only the scar of a Lannister blade and other evidence of the many battles it had seen. Dontos handed him his axe, Luke holding it in the fingers of his left hand before clasping both of his brothers by the forearms and sending them on their way.

"Luke," called a voice, and the Lord of Duskendale turned towards it. A tall, lean man approached, his armor silver and steel with the moon and falcon of House Arryn on the breastplate. The helm, tucked under the speaker's arm, had another elaborate falcon perched atop it, and the pommel of the sword at his side was shaped like a curved beak. A blue cloak with more falcons of silver flowed behind him, the hem dragging over the snow and mud.

Lucaerys reached an arm out to clasp the other man by the wrist. "Rodrik, good to see you. I haven't noticed you or my sister at any of the feasts."

Rodrik Arryn, heir to the Vale, had the cornsilk hair of his father Lord Artys and brown eyes of his mother Margaery Tyrell. A good swordsman, he had married Luke's eldest half-sibling, eighteen year old Priscilla, a year past. "Aye, we've only just arrived. Cilla has been sick for a few weeks now, and we spent longer in White Harbor than my father and mother." His goodbrother gave him a small smirk. "We're hoping she's with child."

Luke returned the smile. "I hope so as well. Congratulations." He turned to another figure who had approached with Rodrik, looking up and up and _up._ This figure was every bit of seven feet in height, and in place of steel and heraldry he wore mail and furs, clearly a Northman. He was young though still older than either Luke or Rodrik, with pox scars and a thickly bearded face. "You, my good man, have the look of an Umber."

The giant shook his head. "Woolfield, actually." His scarred cheeks quirked up as he grinned. "But my mother was one." He extended a hand the size of Luke's head. "Hullen, heir to Ramsgate."

Luke took it, feeling positively tiny. "Lucaerys, Lord of Duskendale. An honor."

Three other randomly selected men were his companions for the day. Ser Alan Bronzegate, heir to Lord Bronn of Bronzegate, had the cunning of his former-sellsword father and the nobility of his Stokeworth mother. Ser Sigmund Sawyer, middle-aged and carrying a morningstar, was of a minor knightly house in the Reach. Ser Kyle Hayford had actually been born a bastard Kyndall of the Westerlands, but had taken the name and arms of his wife Lady Ermesande on their wedding day. Ser Stannis was a former hedgeknight who had been taken into permanent service by Lord Whent of Harrenhal, his arms a simple white raven on a red field. None of them were overly skilled fighters, but none of them were likely to shame themselves or their compatriots either.

Of course, it was the other two men Luke was most interested in.

Ser Aladore Ashford wore a cloak of orange and white, and had a reputation as a skilled fighter. Ser Lorent Poddingfield didn't, but he at least looked like one in his green and white heraldry. Neither gave him a second glance, but they _did_ start slightly when realizing they were together. It had been risky, putting two representatives of the three potentially rebellious houses on the same team, but they had countered the threat by ensuring the most dangerous of the three, Lord Selmy, started with a team on the opposite side of the field. Poddingfield and Ashford were younger, less suspecting and more likely to give up indications, and it was for those reasons they had been paired with Lucaerys and Ser Arthur.

Loyal Lucaerys had a plan, but it revolved around his team winning the massive melee about to kick off. That was where Ser Arthur and Rodrik Arryn came into play.

Many southern melees began with the combatants mounted, but that was not the case today. In a field outside Winterfell where years earlier three trenches had been dug and lit to hold back waves of wights, the teams of men discussed their strategies among themselves, spread out in a massive horseshoe, clearly intended to crash in on itself as the fighting drug on, bringing them closer to the royal box and other nobility seated at the mouth.

While this was similar to war in many regards, there was a noticeable difference. _Or so I've been told. There have been three wars in my lifetime, and each ended before I was seven namedays old._ While the weapons used in the melee were live steel, your goal was not to kill your opponent but merely force a yield. With that in mind, his uncle Baelon—who was perhaps the most infamous warrior in Westeros—claimed you maintained a level of conscious thought that wasn't present in battle. While you were focused on beating but not killing your opponent in a melee, in a war the most skilled fighters became a part of the battle itself. You breathed, you lived, you struck, you killed and you shouted with little physical thought involved, except for an odd part of the mind that spoke as if it were an observer separated from it all. Men who had fought both with and against Lucaerys' grandfather claimed he was the battle and the war wrapped all in one; men who fought by his side had felt they could conquer the world, while those who faced him felt as if nothing could stand against the black-armored demon.

Luke didn't know much about that. He hadn't fought in a true war, and jousting was more a sport than true training. In truth Luke didn't _want_ a war, unlike so many men his age; he wondered if that made him cowardly or smart.

The long bellow of a horn brought him back to reality, and he took the axe from the fingers of his left to the soli grip of his right. Ser Arthur spoke from beside him as the other men likewise readied themselves, preparing to sprint forward at the second horn. "Remember lads, watch one another's back. And don't be too proud to yield when defeated; it's better to brood over yielding than meet the Gods before your time." Luke took a long, calming breath.

And then the second horn sounded, and all hell broke loose.

They made for the team nearest their right, which ended up being wise for that team had opted to attack them first as well. Luke barreled for a man in white and black, catching his sword on his shield before striking with his axe. The knight—of House Swann, judging by the color scheme and the graceful birds on his chest—deflected it with his own shield, striking high again. They exchanged blows for some amount of time, though Luke couldn't have said how long. It ended when Luke struck the knight's shield a particularly hard blow, the blade sinking deep into the oak. The Swann gave out a pained grunt, Luke nearly losing a grip on his long axe when the knight's arm went limp. _I've broken the arm. Apologies, Ser._ Luke wretched the axe free, raising it again although he didn't bring it down. As he had expected, his opponent waved his good arm. "I yield, m'lord."

Luke nodded, turning to gather his wits. Ser Arthur had already driven deeper into the thickening mass of fighting men, and Rodrik Arryn was not far behind. Luke followed, bashing another man senseless with his shield and disarming a third. His compatriots stayed somewhat together, for Luke would catch glimpses of Ser Arthur or Rodrik and occasionally Ser Kyle and the hulking Hullen, though Ser Lorent was likely knocked out early—Luke never saw him once after the horn.

Ser Aladore stayed near him, though, as good with a blade as the rumors had claimed. _Excellent._

Melees were long and bloody affairs, and as predicted Luke wore out quickly, but his adrenaline and the knowledge that he needed to do well for his mission's sake kept him moving. That and his team, for once a knight in the colors of House Royce had been about to force a yield when Hullen Woolfield cracked him over the head with a mace and a laugh, and twice Ser Arthur rallied to his side when Luke was beset upon by two or more opponents. In those instances, Luke did his best to simply get out of the way; Ser Arthur was a maelstrom of white armor and silver blade, and Luke did his best to stay out of the way.

Luke _did,_ however, manage to return those favors thrice for Ser Aladore.

It took hours, Luke's arms nearly dead and his breathing heavy, before the melee sunk to only a few competitors. Of Luke's team only he, Ser Arthur and Ser Aladore remained, Rodrik and Hullen having been forced to yield by Alex the Red before Ser Arthur defeated his sworn brother. Ser Stannis had made it farther than his other compatriots, having been removed mere minutes earlier. In the field turned sloppy with mud and shed blood—though thankfully bereft of corpses—Luke turned to face the last of his opponents, exhausted but thrilled that it had all gone as intended.

As fate would have it, it was Aelor who came barreling for him.

Luke grinned through his gasps for breath and the sweat stinging his eyes. Many men would have yielded by virtue of fighting the prince—it was dangerous to risk bodily harm to one of royal blood, much less to the heir to the throne. Though many had made a show of fighting Aelor, it was unlikely that all had tried to the best of their abilities.

Luke had no such reservations.

The two Targaryens clashed in a whirl of steel.

They'd sparred countless times throughout the years, though not as much in the last few. They each knew the others tendencies and their strengths, and with that knowledge they knew each other's weaknesses as well. Because of that, Luke lasted longer against Aelor than he would another swordsman of equal talent, the two men locked in their own duel as the other remaining fighters brawled it out around them.

But Aelor was better in the end, as they both had already known he was. Luke made a good show of it, keeping his cousins sword at bay for a long while, but eventually one of his parry's was too slow, and a strong strike from Aelor sent Luke's chipped and dulled axe from his hands.

The Lord of Duskendale didn't think twice. He dropped his shield, lowered his head and rammed his shoulder into Aelor's middle, wrenching his lighter cousin off of his feet and stomping forward a few strides before slamming them both to the ground.

He heard the Prince of Dragonstone's breath leave his lungs in a great heave over the sound of their armors crashing together. They both knew Aelor was better with a blade, but Luke was bigger and stronger; they both knew that too. The Lord of Duskendale had wrenched his cousin's blade away in only a few moments, and while he couldn't speak around his gasping lungs, the heir to the Iron Throne waved his hand in surrender.

Luke looked up, his own breath in heavy pants, and looked dumbly at the end of the flying morningstar for a fraction of a second before it knocked him back to the ground.

When Luke finally opened his eyes, Aelor's smirking grin was the first thing he saw. "I'd feel worse for you, cousin, if you hadn't beaten me."

Luke sat up groggily, noticing a ring of armor had formed around him. Ser Arthur looked down at him concernedly, Ser Mychel Redfort sheepishly. "I apologize, Lord Lucaerys. I might have put a bit more into that blow than I should have.

Luke waved a hand in dismissal, though his world was still spinning. "Did we win?"

The voice of Ser Aladore answered. "Yes, Lord Luke."

Aelor reached out a gauntlet, pulling Luke to his feet and steadying him one he was there. "Aye, you bastard. Though I feel slightly better than I otherwise would; Ser Mychel made a wreck of your helm."

Luke eyed the crumpled, dented steel in Ser Aladore's hands for a moment before the panic came over him. He shot a hand to his face, feeling at his cheek although he still wore gauntlets. "My face…"

Aelor laughed. "Is unscathed, though it'll likely be black and blue come the feast. I advise you crown and claim your winner's prize beforehand." The Prince winked, and Luke followed his eyes to where Daenella stared at him from fifty yards away. Even at that distance Luke could see the concern on her face.

And the lust.

He felt better already.

Luke entered the feast some hours later with a big—and painful—smile on his bruised face.

His cousin, gracious in defeat, had helped him towards the royal box, Luke still unsteady on his feet. Though Lucaerys' had been eliminated at the end, Ser Arthur had gone on to defeat the last few competitors and claim victory. Luke had stood with his companions, covered in mud and unable to take his eyes off of his wife, as each man from Ser Arthur who had truly won to Ser Lorent who hadn't beaten a soul were given their share of the substantial purse. Luke didn't really care for the money—he was Lord of Duskendale, and that had serious incomes. It was the reward Daenella had given him that he had truly been after.

That and the benefits to his mission that he was about to reap.

He went looking for Ser Lorent or Ser Aladore and managed to find them together. Luke took a seat across the table from both, wielding a bottle of Arbor Gold in either hand. "To my fellow victors!"

They grinned back at him, but for much different reasons than the one behind Luke's gregarious grin. _Everything's better with some wine in the belly._

 _And the lips flap free._

Luke settled in for a long night of sin and secrets.


	5. Chapter 5: The Dangers of Blood IV

**Author's Note:** Hello again!

Thank you all for the support. Shoutouts to reviewers timijaf, The-Cat-Who-Walks-By-Himself, Frozen862, tfranco9, KingInDaNorf98 (that names cracks me up in the best possible way), Knead-Boric, KingsGraveCrew, mobby123 and guest. Y'all rock.

I know it's been a wait between chapters, but I am enjoying the feeling of competency that comes with not rushing updates out. I hope it translates into the writing. As always, I hope you enjoy and _review_ this update!

* * *

"Bloody hell, boy, how many bottles did it take?"

Luke grinned at his King, all three of them. "Um…more than two."

Center Aegon stood from his chair, striding forward to grip Lucaerys' arms. Left Aegon and Right Aegon came with him. "I can tell. Baelon, rouse the others. Arthur, bring Luke a chair."

He only stopped grinning because his cheeks started to abruptly hurt, finding himself suddenly seated in an upholstered seat. _Ow. Why did happiness just hurt? I thought happiness is supposed to be…happy. The Seven can be such cunts._

The Three Kings had retaken their own seats in front of him, their eyes looking over Luke's head. "If Luke is this bad, how destroyed are the others?"

A melodic voice spoke from behind him, and Luke turned to find himself staring at an angel. Her hair was long and silver, pinned above her head save for two strands that curled down beside either side of her face. Cheekbones, prominent and perfect, were covered by the palest, most salivating skin he had ever seen. Indigo eyes, so beautiful they nearly tore his soul out, were peering down at him with a touch of mirth, the fullest, most attractive lips he'd ever seen twisting into a small smile.

And there were three of her.

"Ser Lorent is passed out in his own vomit on the floor under the same table Ser Aladore is trying to convince a maid to have sex on top of. That maid happens to be over fifty and missing most of her teeth, but you would think her Cersei Lannister to hear Ashford talk." Luke shot to his feet as that voice sent shivers down his drunken spine, only to have the treacherous stone beneath his feet up and walk away without him. He found himself sprawled on his back, the angels suddenly hovering over his head.

He said the first thing that came to his mind. "You are the most breathtaking creatures I have ever seen in my life. Ever. Without doubt. I'm a Targaryen, I don't lie." _That's a lie. But what they don't know can't…can't…doesn't matter._

The angels smiled again, reaching hands—there were more than three, but who in the world ever needed to count above that?—to brush the back of his head. _Ow. See,_ pain _is supposed to hurt, not happiness. The Seven are just._ "I'll be the _last_ creature you ever see if you try to stand again. Could I ask your assistance, Ser Arthur, in getting my husband to his feet?"

 _Husband? HUSBAND?_ Luke stared at the sirens as they and three men in white armor pulled him to his feet, Luke's jaw hanging open. "I'm _married_ to you sweet creatures? All _three of you?_ "

The angels—his wives, apparently—giggled, and Luke had never heard a more heavenly sound. "If you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I'll fetch a bucket of water and ice. I doubt Luke will be much use to you in this state."

The three Aegon's had a touch of humor in their voice, though Luke picked up on a hint of annoyance as well as he was resettled into the same comfy chair he'd first heard the angels from. "Please do, my dear. I knew he'd do whatever it took to get what we needed, but I hadn't expected him to go this far. Has he…"

"He has said nothing to me, Your Grace, aside from demanding I bring him here. Whatever secrets you have or he has just garnered, they are still safe. If you will excuse me."

Luke heard all of this in the back of his mind, his eyes intent on the beautiful angels as his mind raced. Well, _raced_ was too fast of a word; it stumbled more like, so slow Luke would've been angry at his mind if he wasn't looking at the most beautiful women in the world. _Wives. I have wives. Wait, I know that. But I thought I only had one? Did I get more? But if I got more, how do they all look alike? Wouldn't that be…weird? And since when was there three King Aegons? Something..._

That thought process was stopped cold when the three angels stepped out the door, only to be replaced by three more. These angels were different though, their silver hair hanging down their back and wearing less revealing dresses, much to Luke's consternation. They seemed older too, more matronly, and they weren't quite as beautiful as his wives, though it was a close thing. They eyed him, eyes violet, and a smile shadowed their faces. _Angels are happy all the time I guess. They smile at me a lot._

"How is he going to give a report like… _that?_ "

The Aegons responded. "Daenella has a plan."

Luke tried to spring to his feet again at the name, though this time he found himself trapped. Looking up, he realized the three men in white armor were behind him, hands gripping his shoulders and keeping him firmly pressed to his seat. "Daenella!" Luke shouted at them, head gawked backwards. "That's the name of the first angel!"

The men in white smiled, the second angels laughed and the Aegons grunted. "Seven save me."

Luke was trying to figure out why there was three of everyone and everything, many figures walking through the three doorways, when the first angels returned, each holding a bucket in their arms. He smiled what he hoped to be a charming smile as they sat their buckets on a table that one of the new sets of three had drug to rest in front of Luke, mind scrambling to find something flirtatious yet tasteful to say to his three gorgeous women. They spoke instead. "Would you like to do the honors, Your Grace?"

"With pleasure." Luke turned to peer at the Kings as they neared him, wondering what they were talking about. He didn't quite manage a shout when they gripped him by the head and unceremoniously shoved his head into one of the buckets.

Luke waved his arms frantically as he was suddenly plunged under freezing water, breath knocked from his lungs. Strong hands restrained his flailing limbs, just as the strong grip on his head held him firm for a long, cold minute before pulling him back up. Luke took a gasping breath, water flowing down his face, before the Aegons shouted out cheerily "Again!" and he was suddenly returned to the water.

It took two more dunks and a slight scolding of Aegon by Aemon before Luke was finally left in peace, soaked from head to shoulders but suddenly much less drunk. As his world clarified, he looked around to see the same faces peering at him, although now there was only one of each. Aegon was grinning like a child a few feet away, hands and forearms nearly as wet as Luke's head. The second trip of angels had resolved into one smiling Daenerys, and the three men in white became Ser Arthur. Aemon was chuckling, as was Jaehaerys. Aelor, having reversed roles with Luke from the first middle-of-the-night meeting, was laughing loudly, his sober eyes winking mirth at his cousins' drunken ones. Even the Blooddragon seemed amused, though his stony mask of an expression had no cracks. Alysanne, his sweet grandmother, was also present, shaking her head in reprimand though a smirk found purchase on her aging lips.

Laughing louder than all of them was the first trio of angels, who was still his wife but had become one figure instead of three. _Good, I suppose. One Daenella is near insatiable; three of them would be the death of me._

He didn't let his mind wonder at how glorious a death it would be.

Luke glared at her, world still spinning somewhat but much more sober than he had been mere moments. "This was your idea."

Daenella nodded, unashamed. "Revenge, from the first time you cured me of a hangover."

"You were four and ten and I was even younger."

"And the method works as wonderfully now as it did then." Daenella chuckled again, though her face sobered as much as Luke's body had when she turned to the king. "I believe I will retire now, with Your Grace's permission. Ser Baelon, please see my husband makes it safely to my chambers whenever your… _business_ is complete."

The mirth of the Targaryen clan was smashed at her words, all smiles gone as the Lady of Duskendale turned to leave the room, stopping only to kiss Luke on his beginning-to-throb forehead. Luke watched her, the knowledge he had gleaned cutting like a knife as he watched the woman who was so horribly entwined yet completely unaware leave.

He was as surprised as Daenella was when Aegon's kingly voice stopped his wife in the doorway. "Come back, Daenella. Whatever Lucaerys has to say, good or bad, you have the right to hear it. Though I warn you, you may wish you hadn't."

Daenella turned, shock evident on her face. While Luke had been privy to the intrigues and maneuvering that made the Targaryen Empire run since he was still half a boy, having helped shape many of them in the years since, he had never been give leave to speak of them with his wife. Whatever her personality or her relationship with the facets of power, all of which cared for her as much as they did Lucaerys, she was still the daughter of Viserys the Betrayer. She was family, bastard or no, but no one who had lived through the War of the Three Kings could forget what her father had done. Her twin Daena's constant ribbings had harmed any chance of goodwill Daenella could build up, and while she had known since before they were even married that Luke did a great many things for the King that she would never discern, the knowledge that there was a part of his life that she'd never touch had been a shadow on their marriage, just as the reasoning for their betrothal was. It was a miracle, really, that they had found the happiness they had with all the factors fighting against them.

Even so, Luke felt a moment of panic after the King's words, intensified when his wife quietly took a seat beside him and slipped one hand into his. He'd learned much from a drunken Aladore Ashford and Lorent Poddingfield, his carefully chosen words that could by some have been considered treasonous gaining their trust bit by bit, added by more bottles of wine than Luke could fairly remember. He'd used Daenella's name for the sake of the Seven, citing his marriage to Daena's sister in hopes it might get him the information he sought.

It had, and more besides. It'd taken him most of the night and more wine than he'd ever drank in the rest of his life combined, but he'd finally cracked Lorent Poddingfield's exterior.

And now he was going to have to say it all in front of his wife. He would have to admit to her face that he had been investigating rumors about her sister, her bloody _twin,_ and that he had never told her a word about any of it.

Aegon's voice cut into his inner panic. "The floor is yours, Luke. Or do you need another swim?"

"No, no," Luke said, eyes still on Daenella. "My head is as clear now as it ever has been." He hesitated, jaw working slightly, unable to from words as his wife's confused eyes bore into his.

"Well," Jaehaerys cut in, though not impatiently. The Wolf Prince looked from Luke to Daenella, his face almost sympathetic.

Luke hesitated only a moment longer, before he let out a deep sigh. Looking to his wife's hand clutched in his, he finally just blurted out what his two 'comrades' had told him. "Daena is trying to usurp you, Your Grace. Alester Tyrell is in on it."

The power of the Iron Throne sat in shocked silence, broken only by Daenella. "Daena? You've been following rumors of my sister committing treason without saying a word to me?"

Aegon came to Luke's defense, which was for the best considering Lucaerys' found his tongue tied as he tried to meet his wife's pained eyes. "Do not hold it against him, Daenella. He acted only on my command for silence. If you are to be angry, that anger should be directed only at me."

His wife's voice was indeed angry, though her eyes remained on Luke. "With respect, Your Grace, you are my King, not my husband. One of those has every right to keep knowledge form me, but the other… If Daena is acting foolish, why on the earth was I not asked to speak to her? She is my sister, I can reach her mind wherever it is."

Aegon's voice was calm and understanding, though it held a sliver of steel that set Luke's heart to worrying about where his wife's sharp tongue might lead her. "You were not to know. The only reason you would have _ever_ known is that I deemed you adult enough to hear it. You are beginning to prove me unwise in this."

Luke gripped her hand tighter when she responded, willing her to keep her silence. "'Adult enough'. You mean you decided I was _loyal_ enough. That I wasn't my _father._ "

Luke tried to save her before he got herself killed. "Daenella, please—"

"Please nothing." She snatched her hand from Luke's lap, and his growing fear was rivaled by pain at the gesture.

Aegon's voice had become _all_ steel now, still calm but riddled with a touch of anger. "Silence. If you cannot remain with your tongue in your head, you may return to your chambers. Ser Arthur will accompany you, and remain there until this matter is settled. And mayhaps even after."

Alysanne, seated to Daenella's left, placed a hand on her shoulder. Daenella seemed to melt into it, eyes going to her lap. She spared Luke no other glance. "I am sorry, Your Grace. My emotion got the better of me."

Aegon let the silence go for a moment, eyes on Daenella. Baelon of all people, standing behind the King, reached out to nudge the monarch lightly, and the fire went out of the Promised's eyes. Aegon nodded as if to himself, face becoming that of a father instead of a king. "It is alright. I understand your pain, Daenella, perhaps more than anyone, but be wary that you never speak to me like that again." He looked back to Luke. "Proceed, Lord Lucaerys. Every detail."

Luke stared above the King's head, unable to meet anyone's eyes. He didn't wish for any of them to see the pain there, much less his mentor. "Daena is marshalling support for an eventual rise. As we expected, Grassy Vale, Poddingfield, Harvest Hall and Ashford are hers. Alester Tyrell is also in her camp."

Jaehaerys was unconsciously rubbing the stump of his left hand. "Why? He is the king's nephew, and we have done well by the Tyrell's since the days of Aelor."

Others nodded in agreement, Alysanne among them. "His mother is a Targaryen, the only sister of the King. His father has supported us since the days of _his_ father. Alester has no reason to wish Aegon replaced with Daena."

"And he doesn't. The eventual rise Daena has planned isn't for her, it is for Alester."

That statement brought another round of stunned silence. Aegon broke it. "Explain."

Luke nodded. "Alester has Targaryen blood and commands the most men of any Lord Paramount, as well as the second largest navy in the world. While I'm sure none of us saw a chance of _this_ in him, he has always been ambitious. In his eyes, he has a better claim to the throne than many."

Aelor's voice was icy. "Not as good as mine or my sons, any fool would admit as much."

Luke conceded with a shrug. "Yes, but better than Robert Baratheon's. We all know the war he waged."

Jaehaerys grunted. "He had incentive. Aerys was mad, and my father running away with my mother gave grave insult."

"I know this as well as you, my lord, but Alester has notions. He is well beloved in the Reach and on the tourney circuit, and he is doubtless using his time as regent in Highgarden to test more of these waters. In his mind, warped with ambition, he has a chance."

Aemon was staring at the table, mind lost in thought. "Something doesn't make sense. Daena has never struck me as the sort to give something to someone else that she believes she has a right to."

Daenella, Alysanne's hands still on her shoulder, spoke, much to Luke's surprise. She still didn't look at him. "She isn't."

Luke, eyes pleading for his wife to at least glance at him, spoke on. "I believe this is all a part of a greater scheme. We all think Daena rash and hot-tempered, but she is showing intents for this to be a long plot, not a short one. My belief, and I stress it as such, is that she intends to use Alester and his armies to take the throne, and then claim it for herself."

"How." It was Baelon's gravelly voice, the Blooddragon staring at him intently.

"By using the same thing that is keeping most thoughts of open rebellion at bay. Dragons."

A chorus of snorts and scoffs filled the room, covered by Aelor's disbelieving voice. "Come off it. Neither Aemon nor Dany would have any reasoning for siding against father."

"No, cousin, I'm sure you're right on that." He turned to Dany, who had been silently observing the meeting. "But she aims to give Vaelon one."

The Princess's pale skin turned white at the mention of her son, and then became a fierce red as anger made her clench her fists. "Vaelon? What is she intending for Vaelon."

"Nothing yet, aunt. As I said, this is a long game for Daena, something she doesn't intend to pay dividends for years. Vaelon has a dragon, a small one but one that will grow. To my understanding, and much of this is conjecture on my own part, she believes to rally him to her cause as he grows. Gifts here, compliments there, promises. One day he and Raedes will be grown, just as you and uncle Aemon and the King will not always be the riders of the three senior dragons. Bit by it she will rally houses and resources, and then she will carry out her war." Luke finally met the king's violet eyes. "She likely intends to use Vaekar as well, once he and Viserra are married. Power can change the heart of even the noblest of men, and I know of no Targaryen who has ever lacked for ambition."

Aegon spoke quietly, mind in thought. "I know of one. Aelor."

Jaehaerys nodded. "Aye. Is that all, Luke?" When Lucaerys' nodded, the Wolf Prince looked to his brother, resting his maimed hand on the King's shoulder. "I have plenty ideas, as I'm sure everyone here does. But I'll ask what I asked you before we took Pyke, when the Greyjoys had prisoners lining the walls. What would Aelor do?"

Aegon was silent a long moment, and when he spoke his voice was quiet and certain, though his eyes remained on the table. "He would kill every Ashford, Meadows and Poddingfield, and Alester Tyrell besides. He would storm Summerhall and take Viserra hostage, throwing Daena into the black cells for the rest of her life. He'd burn Grassfield Keep to the ground and salt her fields. He'd unleash dragonfire on every man, woman and child who had any part large or small in this."

Jaehaerys nodded, eyes going to the table to join the King's. Silence filled the room, each Targaryen waiting for the King's command to do just that. But it was Alysanne, her own voice just as certain, who broke the silence. "But you are not him."

Aegon nodded, and he looked up to meet the gazes of the room. The King's violet eyes were confident and unwavering, his shoulders set and back straight. "No. I am not the Dragon of Duskendale. Ser Arthur." The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stepped forward from his position near the door. "Rouse Sam Tarly. Have him meet me in this chamber at once." The Kingsguard knight nodded, turning to hastily exit the room. "Baelon, gather my sister. She needs to know of this, now that her son is involved." Blooddragon likewise exited. "Mother, escort Daenella back to her and Luke's chambers. Remain with her until I send you word." The once de facto Queen rose to her feet, prompting the stunned young woman she still clutched to do the same. Luke reached for his wife's hand, but she pulled away as she and Alysanne followed the knights of the Kingsguard out.

Aegon's next command eliminated any thought Luke had of following her. "Dany, Aemon, prepare Aelon and Rhaegal. Luke, go with them." The King's gaze focused on the man who had unraveled this tale of treachery. "You are all going for a ride."


	6. Chapter 6: The Dangers of Blood V

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the support!

Shoutouts go to reviewers timijaf, The-Cat-Who-Walks-By-Himself, Carlthereader, Serithus, We are all the Nowhere Man, TheLaughingMan01 and Knead-Boric, as well as a guest. Y'all rock, and it's awesome to see so many familiar names from the reviewers of DoD.

I think-emphasis on _think_ -what I'll do with this story is tell several short stories from the alternate universe I've created, focused on both Lucaerys and maybe other of Aelor's descendants. If I do that, I'll go back and title each chapter to indicate when stories begin and end (as will the author's notes), much as Psykic Ninja does. Maybe these stories will be after the current one, maybe before, or maybe I'll later decide to not do that at all, but I feel like that is the direction I'm going.

Keeping track of so many new and non-lore characters will be a pain, and makes me question the endeavor as a whole, but I think we can manage if I get around to doing it. Leave me a review or send a PM if there is certain timeframes you want to hear about (The Cleansing of the Isles for example). Heck, even Aelor might make another appearance.

But for now and as always, I hope you enjoy and _review_ this update.

* * *

If there had been any lingering effects of alcohol, they were certainly gone now.

Luke stared in wide-eyed wonder at the world below him. _Hundreds of feet_ below him _._ Adrenaline chased the remnants of wine from his bloodstream, and it was all he could do to breathe.

Most of that was because of the whole 'riding a dragon' thing in general. He'd never asked any of his kin for a ride on theirs before—he had little doubt they would've acquiesced, but it felt much too rude. He'd also clearly never bonded with one, what with only four alive in the world, three having bonded with their riders when Luke was still a babe. Still, the King had told him in detail when Luke was a boy of the joys of flying, and even quiet Aemon would regale you with tales if asked about that particular activity.

But none of those stories did it justice. Especially the part of it being so buggering _pretty_.

The sun was rising, to his left as they flew south, brightening the sky around and the world below. The world of white was much prettier from the sky than it was form the ground, even if the bitterly cold wind was painful against his cheeks. Lucaerys leaned a touch too far off to the side in his wonder, and the horrifying sensation of falling seized him for a moment, the chain of the dragon's saddle tightening over his thighs, and with a strangled cry he wrapped his arms tightly around the silver form in front of him, heart racing.

He both heard and felt that form laugh. Daenerys Stormborn had a connection to the dragons deeper than any other person, and it certainly showed with how effortlessly she commanded Aelon. She was perfectly at ease this high in the air, chatting with Lucaerys as if she didn't have a care in the world despite the white dragon's tendency to bank abruptly and sent his heart into his throat; Luke was half convinced the Mother of Dragons was doing it on purpose. It was all the more impressive and absurd considering she had insisted Luke use the chain, herself sitting freely on top of the dragon with nothing but faith and skill keeping her from a tremendous drop and deadly stop. "Exhilarating, isn't it?"

Exhilarating wasn't half of it. Luke glanced down off the dragon's side again, over the forests and valleys and white below him. They would make it well past the site of the ultimate battle of the Second War for the Dawn at this rate, where both of Luke's grandfathers and thousands more had perished. "It's also terrifying."

Daenerys laughed again, slight from shaking against his broad one. "Oh come now, nephew. You're a Targaryen; the same blood that ran in Aegon the Conqueror runs in you. Fear of heights isn't in the bloodline."

"It's not fear of the heights, its fear of falling to my death _from_ the heights."

They spoke of many things as the world brightened into day and then began to darken again, stopping only once amidst an uninhabited clearing to tend nature's call and give Aelon an hour or so of rest. Aemon and Baelon were somewhere behind them, Dany and Luke having left earlier, and though he couldn't see them when he peered over his shoulder he doubted they were overly far behind. As they took to the skies again and the day started moving towards night, the scenery below slowly turned from the snowy forests of the mid and upper north to the marshes and swamps of the Neck, and finally to the river-strewn greenlands of the northern Riverlands. Where earlier he had been freezing he was now pleasantly warm, though this much sitting in his armor was more than uncomfortable.

 _It took the court a month and more to traverse the north. We've made it out in a day and part of a night._

It was near dark, Luke wondering what they would do for the night, when Aelon began to ease down in elevation. A flock of sheep scattered as the dragon swooped down, and Luke found himself horrified and exhilarated when the beast suddenly turned his slow, steady descent into a darting, predatory swoop. Luke was jerked violently against the chain when Aelon crashed down atop two of the terrified animals, instinctually wrapping his arms around the unsecured Daenerys although she seemed stuck like a tick to Aelon's back. The white dragon wasted no time, his lungs working like billows as a gush of orange flame scorched both of the crushed sheep, searing their bodies before clutching one in his jaws, tossing it into the air with a twitch of his neck and scarfing it down before turning to do the same with the other.

Daenerys seemed totally unperturbed by the dragon's behavior, though she gently patted Luke's hand as she spoke, tone apologetic. "I suppose I could have warned you, but there wouldn't have been much stopping him even if I had tried. Once he saw the sheep scatter he went predatory, and there is no stopping a hunting dragon."

Luke had to pry his arms from around his aunt, violet eyes wide. "Does he do that often?"

Dany shrugged. "A dragon has to eat, same as us. As I'm sure you have noticed, we have covered many miles of ground today. We will let him rest for several hours as we do the same, then finish the flight tomorrow. He'll move faster on a full belly and some rest in any case." She agilely hopped off the dragon, beginning a quick walk towards the bank of a small inlet creek not far away, likely to empty her bladder. _I need to do the same, for I'm near to bursting._

Luke began unfastening the chain, wondering if he needed to find some sort of shelter for them or if they'd sleep in the open near the heat of the dragon. _I've never slept outdoors before, except for in a pavilion. I don't know if I should feel privileged or incompetent._ He glanced up more out of habit, Dany oblivious as she walked towards the creek bank, and saw a terrified face peering at him from the lip of it. "Daenerys," he called, nodding towards the young boy as he did so, "I'd keep your dress down. I believe Aelon has eaten someone's flock."

It took much coaxing, but eventually the two Targaryens prompted a young peasant boy from his hiding spot. It took much less persuading to give him a small purse of silver to pay for the consumed sheep, and to convince him to take his flock and keep both them and his family from the field for the remainder of the night. Luke nudged Dany when the boy finally left to gather the terrified animals, throwing glances over his tiny shoulder at the already-sleeping Aelon. "How much do you want to bet he'll actually listen?"

"I wouldn't wager a copper. I imagine we'll have plenty of gawkers from afar tonight, but none will approach Aelon."

"We could always find a nearby inn or impose on the local lord. I think these are House Haigh lands, though I may be wrong."

Dany shook her head. "No, I've spent more nights out under the stars than you would think, and it looks as if it will be both clear and warm. Melwys and I have a secret spot in Hayford lands that we visit… _often._ " She laughed as he blushed. "I always find it odd when you get embarrassed by such things, considering the family stories of your and Daenella's tizzies of passion."

Luke's spirits sank at that, thinking on what he had pointedly _not_ been thinking on all day. Daenerys saw it, and gently patted his arm. "Do not worry. It may take time, but she will forgive you. She loves you too much to not."

But later, as he and his aunt lay on the ground under the wing of a sleeping dragon after sharing the dried rations they had brought, Luke couldn't help but fear she wouldn't.

* * *

Horn Hill was beautiful when they reached it at near dusk the next day, as was all of the Reach. Green and lush, you could see the colorful gardens inside the heavy stone walls from high above, as well as the farmlands and patches of forest in the surrounding countryside. In the cool of near night the fields were peppered with peasants working the rows of corn and cabbage and other staples, though nearly every face was upturned to take in the sight of the white dragon in the orange sky.

But for all the beauty of the surrounding land and the flower gardens within, Horn Hill was still a fortress. As one might expect, the castle was high in the foothills of the Red Mountains, overlooking the adjacent countryside and fields below. The four curtain walls and their evenly-spaced towers gave archers the ability to rain arrows down on attackers from all sides, and there were doubtlessly many murder holes and other defensive works prepared to hold off conventional armies.

But a dragon was anything but conventional, and like near every castle it wasn't dragonproof. Daenerys settled Aelon down in the middle of one of the largest courtyards, sending animals and people scattering like disrupted flies off of a corpse.

Lucaerys was quite impressed by how quickly the Tarly's reacted, considering a dragon literally dropped out of the sky on top of them. By the time had Lucaerys had dismounted and began the painful process of stretching his cramped legs—made worse by two days of the pinch of his armor—a greeting party had formed and started towards them in good order. Twelve Tarly men-at-arms and a pair of knights, a few of them clearly having been rushed to muster judging by their only half-mail dress, flanked a short, slightly built woman in a dress of forest green and crimson lace. Slightly behind her came a young girl of around ten, and a Dornishman in the robes and chains of a maester. Others, both men-at-arms and servants, had formed a circle around Aelon and the two Targaryens, eyeing from a distance the white scaled beast and the silver-haired children of Valyria in mixtures of terror and awe.

Daenerys had gone to stand near Aelon's head, her hand resting against his snout in what was likely an attempt to keep the tired beast calm despite all those making a spectacle of him. It was from there she spoke, voice the confident and strong tone of a seasoned diplomat. "Lady Tarly, we apologize for the sudden appearance. I hope we haven't caused you too much distress."

Lady Malora Sloane was a pretty woman, though not one songs would be sung about. The sister of one of Samwell Tarly's vassals, she had given the Lord of Horn Hill three children; Aemon, a squire in service to Lord Alekyne Caswell who was back at Winterfell, Talla, the namesake of Sam's sister, and young Jon who was also in Winterfell, with his father. The Lady of Horn Hill and her daughter had remained behind, both ill at the time Lord Sam and his sons had gone north, but she looked more than healthy now. In fact she looked positively fierce, eyeing the dragon and those of royal blood with no trace of fear. "Only the typical amount of distress a dragon in my courtyard could cause, Lady Targaryen."

Luke saw his aunt's mouth quirk into a smirk. "I pray you'll forgive us, then. And your husband, as he played a part in our coming."

Luke stepped forward on cue, giving a slight bow to Lady Tarly before extending a hand and the two scrolls clutched within. "A message from both Lord Samwell and His Grace the King. I also feel it only fair to warn you another dragon and pair of Targaryens are on their way, liable to arrive at any moment."

Malora Sloane took both messages, reaching a hand back towards the maester behind her without so much as a glance. He instantly procured a small knife, and with it Malora opened first the scroll from her husband, then the scroll from the King, reading both quickly. Luke and Dany waited patiently, the Lord of Duskendale watching Talla Tarly in amusement as the little girl stared in open wonder at Aelon.

For such a slight woman, Lady Tarly's voice was sharp and piercing when she lowered the scroll. "Mors, make ready four chambers for our guests, and have a meal prepared at once. I apologize in advance for the simple fare it will be, but, as Lady Daenerys said, we were not expecting you." The maester turned to at once, fading away quickly back towards the central keep. Lady Tarly didn't watch him go, instead turning to one of the knights. "Ser Bolson, gather Sers Lyn and my brother and prepare my husband's solar for a meeting." She finally turned her eyes back to Daenerys, cocking an eyebrow at Aelon. "And see what needs to be done about this… _larger_ guest. I suppose you will keep him under control while on Tarly land."

Daenerys' grin became a full smile. "So long as you can keep your household from tempting fate."

Lady Tarly nodded, the motion as sharp and fierce as her voice. "Agreed. Now, I suppose I should welcome you to Horn Hill. If you'll follow me, we'll find you something more comfortable." She glanced down at Dany's stained dress and furs and Lucaerys' smudged armor. "And cleaner."

* * *

Luke wasn't certain if he liked Malora Tarly or was terrified of her.

"I will offer you the men we have within reason, Lord Lucaerys, but this has been well over a decade of peace. Our castle isn't manned with a full complement of soldiers, and even after all this time the land is still recovering from the losses at the Neck."

Luke, now dressed in borrowed breaches and a robe, nodded. The fierce end to the Second War for the Dawn had occurred nearly two decades ago, but so severe had the losses of it and the wars before it been that many houses still weren't fully rearmed and manned. The Tarly's in particular had been hard struck; Lord Randyll and his second son Dickon had both died, as had nearly all of the men they'd brought to the King's aide. It was fortunate for the welfare of their house that Sam hadn't died as well, like Lord Aemon of the greens having reloaded on one of the archer towers for the battle. The story went that Sam's compatriots had all died, and he lived only by pulling a corpse over himself and pretending he was dead as well. Opinion seemed to range from that being genius to that being cowardly, depending on the opinionates age. Older, wiser folk—and particularly veterans who had been at the Neck—all agreed it was brilliant.

 _Though stories are just that, stories. Perhaps I shall ask Lord Sam himself one day._

"We understand, Malora," Aemon, having arrived with Baelon atop Rhaegal half an hour after Dany and Luke, answered. While normally quiet, he had taken a lead voice in discussing with Malora Tarly, knowing her and her household on a personal level due to his close friendship with Samwell. "There should not be a battle in any case. Daena has no knowledge that we are aware of her plot, or that we are closing in."

Blooddragon grunted, and Luke turned to look at him. The stern faced, Targaryen-haired Kingsguard was looking pointedly at the advisors standing around, and in particular the maester. Malora got his intention as quickly as the others. "There are no traitors amongst my husband's counsellors, Ser Baelon." She glared back at the man still in his white armor, clearly displeased with even the insinuation.

Baelon's voice was gravelly and deep, and clearly rarely used. " _Everyone's_ a traitor."

Luke spoke up quickly, trying to save insult. Baelon was the best alive at taking the lives of others, but his diplomatic side was as rough as sandstone. _Even that is a generous comparison. Baelon doesn't_ have _a diplomatic side, rough or smooth or anywhere in between._ "What my uncle is saying is that allowing too many people to know of our intentions is dangerous, no matter their loyalty. Loose tongues are what tipped Daena's hand, and we must make sure to avoid a similar fate."

Malora, still glaring at the unapologetic Baelon, slowly nodded. "Very well." She turned to a short man who shared her black hair and aquiline nose, her younger brother Harrold Sloane. He had left their elder brother Henry's household to travel with his sister to Horn Hill when she'd gone to marry Sam after the wars, and had stayed since. "Rouse the men and have them ready to move at dawn, but give them no indication of where they are going or why. That will remain with the souls in this room." She turned to set her fierce gaze back on the Kingsguard knight. "Does that suit you, Ser?"

Baelon's dark eyes never flinched away from the spitfire. "No, but nothing ever does."

Daenerys, like Luke and Aemon dressed in borrowed clothing, seamlessly moved the conversation on. "Ser Baelon will ride with Luke and your men. Lord Aemon and I will impose on your hospitality a day longer with your permission, and fly to rendezvous with my nephews after they've had sufficient time to reach Grassfield Keep, in case unforeseeable circumstances call for dragon intervention."

Aemon pushed his palms outwards in a placatory gesture. "We anticipate none, and would like to keep all of this as bloodless and quiet as possible. Dragons are not very good at doing either, which is why we have levied your men so. I have little doubt King Aegon will compensate Lord Samwell well for the services you are rendering the Crown, and if he does not I will do so myself."

Malora eyed them all for a long moment before finally nodding. "Very well." She abruptly rose, prompting the others to do the same. "My men will make the preparations at once." With a flick of her hand the counselors were dismissed, swiftly leaving the room to do as they had been bid. "I hope you will find your accommodations suitable. Samwell would want you to use his solar as long as you wished, so I will offer the same invitation. As it is late I will see to getting my daughter settled; your dragons have thrown her off her normal routine, as they have us all. If you need me, don't hesitate to call."

Her tone clearly told them _to_ hesitate to call, and the four Targaryens waited until she had swept out of the room to speak again. Surprisingly, it was Baelon who spoke first. "I like her."

Dany was clearly less than amused by Malora Tarly's demeanor, despite her diplomatic smiles earlier. "Have we given her offense in the past, Aemon? This has been the most passively-aggressive greeting I believe I have ever received."

Aemon was smiling a genuine, not diplomatic, smile, though his eyes were locked on the tomes overflowing from the bookshelves lining Samwell Tarly's walls. "No, Malora has always been…testy. It is simply her nature. She meant no offense, and I hope you take none personally."

Luke grunted. "How has a man as kind as Sam survived marriage to a lady like her?"

"Oh, the same way your grandfather Alaric survived nearly two decades with you grandmother Cersei Lannister; a spine of steel and enough brains to get the hell out of the way most of the time." He tore his eyes from the books he so clearly wished to investigate and settled them on Luke. "What is your plan, nephew?"

Dany was also looking at him. "As Aemon told Malora, we don't want word of any possible rebellion getting out, particularly if that rebellion is coming from one of our own. That means we need to avoid an armed confrontation if we can."

Luke nodded. "Whatever Daena's faults and ambition, she loves her children. That is the key to all of this. His Grace left me to formulate a plan, and formulate a plan I have. We take Viserra."

Dany cocked a brow. "Daena won't be willing to give her up."

Luke shrugged. "You're right, which is why I said 'take'. Summerhall is a pleasure castle, not a fortress. It is not built to withstand attack."

"We want to _avoid_ an attack, Luke."

"I know, I'm merely stating the advantage is ours should it come to that, especially if you and Dany deploy your dragons. Daena and her… _compatriots_ will know this the same as you and I. What I propose we do is ride straight in. She'll be duty-bound to offer us housing and food, which we will accept. I will then make an offer to take Viserra as a ward so she may be raised with her cousins Baelor and Baela in Duskendale and King's Landing, with the added incentive that the King wishes her and her betrothed Vaekar to be childhood friends before they are wed in the years to come. Whatever our thoughts on Daena and her harebrained scheme, she doesn't lack cunning or intelligence. She'll understand the true meaning of all of this, and that she has been found out."

"And what if, Gods forbid, it turns violent," asked Dany.

"I will have Baelon with me, and he is better at violence than any man in Daena's camp. I will also wear my armor and be armed, and while I am by no means a Blooddragon I am not hopeless either."

"Wearing armor would instantly be seen as odd. So will a knight of the Kingsguard being so far from the King, for that matter."

Luke shrugged in agreement. "Aye, but as I've said, Daena will know what is truly happening before it is all said and done. We will just have to live with the early indicators."

Dany nodded slowly. "If we have Viserra, Daena will not dare make a move. That will stop her plotting before the rot becomes wider spread, and we can deal with her more permanently at a later date. Perhaps the King will decide to visit his cousins and Summerhall with the court once he has returned from Winterfell."

Aemon, having given into the temptation and moved to the bookshelf where he was reading titles intently, gave his own agreement. "And, as is our intent, this will all have been dealt with quietly. Malora and Sam will keep the Tarly household quiet, and I am sure the King has already found a way to explain our sudden departure from Winterfell."

Luke turned to the only other member of their party, who gave a single nod. _Enthusiastic agreement, by Baelon's standards._ "I am glad we are all agreed," Luke said, rising. "If I am to ride early in the morning, I intend to get a good night's sleep."

Later, as he lay in his bunk, he thought of what he was about to embark on and the risks involved. He prayed to the Old Gods and the New that he survived to return to Daenella.

And he prayed that, when he did, she would have him.


	7. Chapter 7: The Dangers of Blood VI

**Author's Note:** Hello again!

It's been a while, but I'm slowly chugging along with this story and the Golden Stag. Two Diamonds and a Stone is also worked on intermittently, but it is much less seldom. Whenever I have time to write (which isn't much) I tend to just go with whichever I feel at the time. This time it was this one!

I feel there should be a disclaimer for particularly dark violence on this one. Nothing like Ramsay and Theon or even near, but a bit darker than I normally go, even if it is very brief. Most of you won't bat an eyelash, but I feel I should leave a **read at your own discretion** warning anyway just in case.

As always, I hope you enjoy and _review_ this update!

* * *

It didn't go perfectly. Things rarely did.

Lucaerys Targaryen, Lord of Duskendale, rode at the head of two hundred men in Tarly green. Baelon Blooddragon, white armored and cloaked, rode beside him, as did the short Ser Harrold Sloane. It was a quiet two days of riding, the men under his command unfamiliar to him and thusly distant. His uncle was no man's idea of pleasant conversation, saying a grand total of two words to him the entire ride, and Ser Sloane was little better. It left Luke with an absurd amount of time to think, and the recent events had left many things to think about, most of them unpleasant.

He tried to use the time to plan the coming confrontation. His memory, sharp and sure, recalled the layout of Summerhall well; he had visited it on multiple occasions with his wife when she came to see her sister. As it had been in the days of Aegon the Unlikely, the new Summerhall was a pleasure castle, not a fortress. Its palace walls were built of soft marble, meant for beauty rather than defense. Gardens and fountains surrounded it as opposed to defensive curtain walls, and its grand doors were decorative mahogany, not steel banded oak. The palace would never be sieged, for any army could storm it within an hour.

That was the exterior, anyway. The interior, while as beautiful and decadent as the outside, was rigged with failsafes for just such an occasion. While Luke's grandfather Aelor may have agreed to rebuild Summerhall in the image of its predecessor, images could be deceiving, and the Dragon of Duskendale had always been more warrior than lord. There were escape tunnels reminiscent to those of the Red Keep, as well as more halls and turns than were strictly necessary. An attacking force could find themselves storming a pantry rather than the Lord's chambers, and the occupants had many niches and hideaways from whence to spring ambushes. While the castle would never hold off an attack outright, it would inflict heavy casualties on its oppressors while also allowing its lord or lady and their family to escape.

 _Which is why I'm avoiding an outright attack. My role for the King is as a diplomat, not as a general. There is a reason he sent me instead of Sers Melwys or Arthur Dayne._

But the concept of diplomacy was nearly abandoned the second he crested the last foothill of the Westmarch to gaze down upon the beauty of Summerhall—and the golden rose on green field of Tyrell, flying over a small conglomeration of tents outside its fair walls.

Luke cursed, first internally and then verbally as the Blooddragon reigned to a halt beside him. "Alester is here."

The Blooddragon said nothing, but Ser Harrold cursed as well, much more colorfully than had Lord Luke. "If he is here, so is his retinue. Our numerical advantage is gone."

Luke's mind was racing, though he kept his voice steady and calm. "We weren't intending to use that in any case, Ser Harrold, as you know. This just makes things interesting in case we are forced to." He eyed the number of tents and picket lines of horses, trying to garner an idea of what they were facing. "I imagine there are around one-hundred and fifty men with him, judging by the tents. Perhaps more inside. Uncle?"

The Blooddragon stared for a moment before grunting. "Two."

 _Damn._ "Two hundred then."

Ser Harrold didn't seem to be panicking, but he wasn't calm. "Add that to the permanent guard of Summerhall and the advantage is theirs."

"Summerhall has only fifty or so permanent guards. They possess no advantage, even if that number was a thousand; we have dragons, they do not. And let me reiterate, Ser Harrold; _we want no violence._ "

"Aye, but the entire intent of my men was the _threat_ of violence to give Daena more reason to surrender her daughter. We no longer have that. That changes things, Lord Luke."

Lucaerys was silent a long moment, before he shook his head. When he spoke he tried to make his voice as confident and commanding as possible. "This changes nothing, save for timing." He looked to the goodbrother of Samwell Tarly. "Send one of your men to Lord Aemon and Princess Daenerys. Have them circle over Summerhall, but nothing more unless they see signs of bloodshed."

The Reachman knight stared for a moment, but he followed the order, gesturing one of his men forward and relaying the command before the rider turned and galloped to carry it out. Luke nodded at him in thanks. "Pick your three best knights, Ser Harrold. Place one in charge of your men and have them at the ready near the Tyrell camp, though they are to remain peaceful. The other two are coming with us."

Sloane narrowed his eyes slightly. "To where?"

Luke looked back to Summerhall. "To the heart of the problem."

* * *

Daena was a bitch of a woman, as Baelon had ineloquently called her at Winterfell, but none could deny she was beautiful one. Lucaerys imagined it was amplified for him, as he was married to her twin.

The regent of Summerhall greeted the envoy of five men outside the mahogany gates of Summerhall, Alester Tyrell on one side and her husband Ser Alman Meadows on the other, with other retainers and servants spread out behind. His goodsister wore a dress of gold and her hair in a mane of silver, accentuating both her cheekbones and her curves. Alester was dressed in a green and gold tunic and breeches, his hair shorn short to better fit under a helm while his beard was full and Dornish black. Alman Meadows was tall and well built, with a twice broken nose but otherwise fair featured face. He was dressed to match his royal wife, in gold and silver.

They also, Luke noted, wore carefully blank expressions.

"Cousin Luke," Daena called as he dismounted his borrowed palfrey, Sers Baelon, Harrold and the two Tarly knights doing the same. "We were not expecting you. In truth, we thought you were at Winterfell enjoying Lord Stark's feast."

Luke smiled, practiced and careful and much more convincing than theirs. "Indeed I was, and I must say you have missed quite the event. As it is, the King sent me back with a fair bit of news to discuss with you."

She cocked her brow, and Luke was ambushed by thoughts of Daenella that he had to forcefully fight off. "News?"

Luke waved his hand dismissively. "Family business. Not major, but pressing enough for me to be sent."

Alester Tyrell—who was also a cousin of Luke's, though a bit more distant than Daena—nodded either to or at Ser Baelon. "Pressing enough for the Blooddragon to be sent as well, I see. Am I to be privy of this information?" His eyes shifted to Luke, and in them the Lord of Duskendale saw that the heir to Highgarden wasn't fooled in the slightest. "Any family matter that is carried by one of the King's chosen and his best Kingsguard should include the son of Princess Rhaenys, should it not?

Luke grinned disarmingly, though his insides were ice. _Alester may be stupid in thinking he can be king, but he is by no means a lackwit. And he's awfully good with a blade._ "I leave that to your father and mother, cousin. They have discussed the matter with the King himself, and I'm sure they will fill you in once they have returned to Highgarden." He should have stopped there, but Lucaerys plowed on. _It's not like I'm fooling anyone as it is._ "I must point out, I was under the impression that that is where _you_ were supposed to be. Lord Willas and Princess Rhaenys seemed to think the same."

Alester's face twitched. Luke didn't bother looking at Daena or Alman—of the three of them, Alester was the most dangerous at the moment, what with his temper and reputation for rash action—but he imagined the twitch was in their faces as well. "I had a bit of business with Ser Alman and Lady Daena, concerning a taxes dispute with Lord Peake. It has been resolved; I was only leaving, if you'll excuse me." He glanced once more at Baelon Blooddragon before focusing on Daena; Luke let a bit of the tension in his shoulders melt at the action. "It will take a bit for my men to pack and be off of your land, Lay Daena. Please forgive the intrusion."

Lucaerys' goodsister smiled a sickeningly sweet smile. "Take your time, Lord Tyrell." She waited for Alester to stride towards his men—slow and steady, clearly in no rush—before she spoke again to Luke. "Now, dear brother, the hospitality of Summerhall is yours." She turned, gesturing towards the open mahogany doors and guards within. "Please."

Luke walked forward into the vipers nest, a grin on his face and fear in his heart.

There were no words exchanged between groups as Daena led them through the beauty of Summerhall, barking orders for refreshment and to otherwise be left in peace. At first Luke thought that it would be only Daena and her husband with his party, which set him at ease, but as he entered a private chamber—likely a meeting solar, judging by the table and chairs and thick walls—he noticed that four other armed and armored men had joined them along the way, spreading out behind Daena and Ser Alman as they neared the head of the table farthest from the door.

 _An even setting. I imagined Daena would signal for the odds to be in her favor._

The door was closed behind them by a big knight with flaming red hair and half as many teeth as he was supposed to have. He started to remain behind Luke and his group—no one was sitting down on either side of the chamber by mutual accord—but Baelon turned to face him, staring with his Lefford eyes wide and ready. The knight tried to return it, but anyone with any moral character found it hard to meet Baelon Bloodragon's eyes for long. Daena broke the stalemate by calling the knight to her side, where he seemed more than willing to go.

And the silence descended.

Daena stared at him and Luke stared back, both knowing what was about to come. Luke pondered for a moment if he should try to play it off for appearances sake of the men in the room, but everyone with Daena seemed to know what was truly going on, and everyone with Luke either did or were rapidly figuring it out.

The silence stretched, quiet and peaceful and loud and deafening and ripe with a tension that had built slowly since Luke had stepped foot in Summerhall.

Luke was the one to break it, for his own sanity's sake. "What the hell were you thinking?" Daena's jaw clenched subtly, but she said nothing, merely cocking a brow at him. Luke waited, expecting _something_ , but when she maintained her silence he carried on. "King Aegon was good to you, Daena. He didn't hold your father's transgressions against you, married you to someone he considered a brother, let your daughter maintain Summerhall—"

"Let?" Her voice was sharp and cold, indigo eyes angry. "It is Viserra's birthright, as the Iron Throne is mine."

Luke scoffed. "I don't even want to know how deranged your mind has to be to think that."

"My mind is my own. Yours is and always has been whatever Aegon deems it to be."

Luke shook his head, though he knew the statement held a fair bit of truth. "Whatever your politics, it's done now. Where is Viserra?"

Daena straightened at her daughter's name. "You will not take her."

"I'm trying to avoid having to take your life."

"You _will not take her_." In response to Daena's tone her men began to step into a wider pattern, hands drifting to their swords. In response Luke reached for the handle of his own axe, though he was overshadowed when the tall form of Baelon shouldered his way to the front, head cocked down slightly. His own hand grabbed the sword on his hip, and Luke glanced at the Blooddragon only long enough to see his lean face sinking into an anticipatory grin.

Luke, however, felt no joy at what might be coming. He once again looked to Daena, who to her credit had never looked away from him. "Think of your other daughters, Daena. There is no way out of this, and the king will not punish Viserra for your sins. She is only to ensure you no longer plot treason. It is more than merciful, considering."

"No way out? If I recall, Alester Tyrell and two-hundred men reside outside my walls, and they are equal if not superior to the men you brought."

 _Not with the dragons._ Of course, he didn't mention them quite yet. "Think this through, Daena. This plot may be foolish but you certainly aren't a fool; you can't rebel now. There is a reason your plan was meant to be years in the future." Daena's face twitched, and Luke spoke again, desperately trying to talk her out of drastic action. "I know it all, and so does the King, Daena. You're only mistake was telling too many loose-lipped conspirators so early; Varys caught wind, and Lorent Poddingfield gave the rest after my friendship and insistence he drink."

"I never told the Poddingfields."

"Well _someone_ did, Daena. There is no need for this violence. Give Viserra over peacefully, convince the other conspiring houses to do the same, and no one outside the King and this room will ever even know."

For a moment, Luke thought she might give in. But as fate would have it, the door behind Luke swung open.

He and his party whirled, expecting an ambush. Instead, a small, silver-haired girl stepped through, in a small dress of gold and black.

"Uncle Luke!" Viserra Targaryen cried, pumping her five-year-old legs excitedly towards him. "I thought it was you!"

"Viserra," Daena barked. Luke heard her shuffle forward towards their undefended backs, but Baelon had swung back around in an instant, stopping her advance. "Leave this chamber at once!"

The young Lady of Summerhall started to slow, face flickering with innocent confusion, but Luke closed the distance between them and scooped her into his arms, thanking the Seven profusely for her arrival as she giggled again and threw her arms around his neck. "Viserra! Excellent news, sweetheart; your mother and I were just discussing how you will be joining me and your cousins in Duskendale!"

Daena took another step forward, snarling impressively ignoring the vicious Kingsguard in her path. "Put her down at once, Luke. Viserra, come here now."

Luke felt as ruthless as his grandfather had been when he saw the confused fear on his niece's face, her little arms releasing his neck though she didn't try to squirm from his arms. Luke moved towards the door. "Come along, dear. Your mother will miss you very much, but your aunt is beyond excited."

He shouldn't have begun to open the door, Luke would think later. He would think a great many things about the next few moments in the years to come.

"She's _mine!"_ Daena roared, diving forward. Her husband and knights did the same with the sound of unsheathing swords. Luke watched numbly, Viserra screaming in fear in his ear, as Baelon, Ser Harrold and the others did the same, the Blooddragon snarling as he darted towards Ser Alman Meadows. Luke turned to shield Viserra as the small room became a flurry of blades and blood, too shocked to think clearly as Baelon disemboweled Ser Alman with a throaty roar just as the red-haired knight of Daena's slit one of the Tarly men's throats. Viserra clawed at his face, not in an attempt to get away but as if she was trying to crawl _into_ him to hide from the violence.

He would be thankful for that in the years to come. With her face buried in his neck, she didn't see her mother die.

Luke never remembered where Daena got the dagger that she charged at him with. He never remembered when he had unsheathed his axe with his right hand, even as he clutched Daena's daughter to his chest with his left. He never remembered whipping the axe back as he had trained to do for years, or bringing it down with all the strength in his broad form towards the screaming face that looked so like his wife's.

He did remember—he'd never forget—the sharpened blade in his hand splitting his cousin's skull like a melon, sinking deep into her forehead. He remembered indigo eyes that he saw every time he looked at his children glassing over in death as they stared into him from either side of his axe blade. He remembered the shout in Daena's throat turning into a dying sigh, the feel of her dagger deflecting off the armor of his right ribs as the strength driving it fled.

Those things he remembered until the day he died.

Luke stared at the corpse with his axe in its head dumbly, feeling Viserra lean back, see her mother's dead body and go limp, poor little mind overwhelmed as she fell unconscious against his shoulder. Luke noted it numbly, too shocked at his own action to show the crushing concern he otherwise would have felt. All he could do was stare at his wife's face dead on the marble floor, red blood streaking silver hair as it poured from a red canyon in a pale forehead.

"Lord Luke," a shocked voice said, not quite shaking the Lord of Duskendale out of his stupor but making him look up into the face of Ser Harrold Sloane. It dawned on Luke that he, Harrold and Blooddragon were the only men standing, the ground littered in corpses. Alman Meadows sprawled on the table, guts hanging out, face contorted in pain around the finishing slice to the throat. The Blooddragon stood behind Ser Harrold, face once again emotionless now that the killing was done.

Harrold Sloane, sword red with blood shed for the Targaryen cause, stared into Luke's wide eyes. "Your…cousin. Kinslaying is against—"

Ser Harrold Sloane never said another word, the point of a sword appearing out his open mouth. Baelon Bloodragon withdrew the blade cleanly, dropping the instantly dead goodbrother of Samwell Tarly to the ground. Luke, body already rocked by his own actions, was again floored by the actions of his uncle.

"Baelon," Luke said, trying to process. "You just—"

A bloody, gauntleted hand slapped Luke hard across the face, the Blooddragon's face suddenly in his own. "Get ahold of yourself." Hands gripped Luke's shoulders, shaking him and by default the small child in his arms. "Wake up, boy, use your fucking head!"

Luke regained most of his senses, even the ones Baelon had just knocked out of him. "Why?"

Baelon kept his firm grip on Luke's shoulders. "The man saw too much. A Targaryen could not be seen as a kinslayer so soon after the wars that tried to wipe us out for madness, particularly not one who is nearly a son to the king. It would cripple opinion of the King and of you, and the Crown can afford neither."

"But he just helped—"

"That's why I gave him a quick death." Baelon shook him again. " _This_ is what keeps the Seven Kingdoms together, Lucaerys. It's not politics or trade or justice or spying at a feast, it is fire and it is blood. _Death._ Death is what it means to be a Targaryen, Lucaerys. Death is all that keeps us alive." Baelon rose back to his full height, towering over his nephew. "Death is what we are."

The Blooddragon turned, picking his sword up from where he had dropped it. "Check on the child. I will control the situation outside." He snorted before opening the door and stepping out into the audible chaos of Summerhall. "Fire and blood, nephew. Now you know it's true meaning."


	8. Chapter 8: The Dangers of Blood VII

**Author's Note:** Hello again!

Check out the second author's note! A few thanks and a request for input will be there, so don't back out on me!

 **Disclaimer:** This should be horribly obvious, but murder is bad. Don't do it. This story is in no way romanticizing or glorifying it; this is in medieval times, and while murder was just as bad then as it is now, in Martin's fictional world it is more commonly and openly carried out. Still, remember that these are fictional characters doing fictional things that, be the character the protagonist or not, are not all good. Do not aspire to be them.

All of you know that of course, just figured I'd make an official statement!

As always, I hope you enjoy and _review_ this update!

* * *

The King arrived five days later, summoned by strategic relays of raven messages.

Luke was seated on a balcony of Summerhall, staring out over the fountains and gardens, when the black dot of Balerion appeared and grew steadily larger in the dusk sky. Lucaerys watched as riderless Aelon and Rhaegal rose to meet him, the three dragons greeting one another with roars and dragony screeches, before all three soared over his head and out of sight on the other side of Summerhall, where the makeshift holding grounds for Aelon and Rhaegal had been situated.

It was directly between the camps of the Tarly retinue and Alester Tyrell, both parties stopped from having at one another by the arrival of Daenerys and Aemon. The heir to the Reach may well have fought the Tarly men if not for the dragons; Alester may be a treacherous snake but he was also smart. When the two living weapons of war had arrived he had stood his men down, and relinquished his blade—albeit privately—to the Blooddragon, who had emerged from Summerhall with bloodstained gauntlets and a deadly gaze. The son of Rhaenys awaited his forthcoming—and certain to be private—punishment with all the grace of his royal mother.

Daenerys had taken over care for Viserra, whom Lucaerys feared would never fully recover from what her much-too-young eyes had witnessed. The tiny child was acting much like Lucaerys himself, eating and answering when spoken to, but eyes normally glazed and reliving something they wished they didn't have to. The child had barely slept since.

Lucaerys hadn't gone near her, selfishly more for his sake than hers.

Luke didn't rise to go and meet his King, although protocol dictated he should; he hadn't been much good at protocol over the last few days. Hell, he hadn't been much good at anything; his days consisted of sitting in this same spot, staring out over the beautiful gardens and marble walls that had borne witness to the terrible deeds inside.

The Lord of Duskendale was a relatively pious man, even if he wasn't an overly zealous one. He'd spent a great deal of his time staring in silent prayer, asking forgiveness for not only taking a life, but taking the life of his kin. When he wasn't praying he was reliving the moment his axe collided with Daena's skull, her dagger harmlessly scratching his armor as she fell to the ground. When he wasn't reliving _that_ , he was reliving the moment Baelon's sword had plunged out of Harrold Sloane's mouth from behind, the knight slain not a minute after fighting hard and well for the Targaryen cause simply because he had seen too much.

And no matter which of those three he was focused on, part of his mind was always on Daenella.

Luke still didn't rise when King Aegon the Promised stepped quietly out onto the balcony. He said nothing as the King took a seat beside him on the marble bench, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and steeple his fingers in a mirror pose to Lucaerys' own. Luke thought he should probably say something—maybe an apology, maybe an angry statement—but didn't feel up to doing any of it, and the sound of crickets and frogs filled the air around them.

It was a long while before the King spoke. "She was your first, wasn't she."

For a moment Luke thought Aegon meant Daena had been his first woman, and nearly corrected the King that no, he had the wrong sister. Then it hit him like Mychel Redfort's morningstar; Daena had been the first person Luke had ever killed.

The thought had never even occurred to him until then. After all the other shocks to his system, this one didn't leave much of a dent. "Yes."

Aegon nodded once, his voice low and calm. "I remember mine. It was at the Ruby Ford, a knight in the heraldry of House Buckler—part of Loras Tyrell's charge. He had a warhammer that nearly took my head off. I never knew his name." Aegon grunted. "I killed many men that day, but the Buckler knight will be with me until the day I die. I imagine it must be worse for you."

Luke felt a sudden stab of anger, and all his years of training didn't stop his retort. "You mean since she was my cousin and sister-in-law, _and_ that I killed her while holding her crying daughter to my side?"

Aegon didn't flinch at the bitter bite to Luke's tone, and his own calm and steady speech didn't change. "Yes, that about covers it." He was silent a while, letting Luke boil for a few moments. "You know this was never intended, for either her or you."

Luke gritted his jaw, though he managed to keep his voice more under control. "I know it was never off of the table either, even when you sent me to do it. We both knew it could happen this way."

"Yes, we did. But I sent you anyway."

"And I went." Luke finally turned his head to look at his cousin and King, finding the Promised's violet gaze was already on them. Luke saw the King's regret and pain there plainly in the dying light, and it nearly stopped his words in his throat.

Nearly. "Daena said something to me, not long before I killed her. She said that her mind was her own, while mine had always belonged to you." Luke snorted, then gazed back out at the darkening gardens. "She was right."

The King of the Iron Throne said nothing for a long, long while. When he finally did, his voice was even quieter than it had been beforehand. "For the record, Lucaerys, I _am_ sorry. I never meant any of this, not for Daenella or for Daena or for you." His tone dropped even further. " _Especially_ not for you." Then, abruptly, his voice changed to iron. "But you are not the only Targaryen to do something terrible for the good of the realm. We lived through it. You will too."

Luke felt a new rush of anger, eyes darting back to the King. "Aelor never killed one of his own family."

Aegon was staring at him now, violet eyes deadly serious. "No, your grandfather did not, though he killed women and children and destroyed cities with impunity when he thought it was needed. But I'm not talking about the Dragon of Duskendale; I'm talking about _me_." Aegon leaned back against the marble bench. "I have a daughter."

Luke was once again shocked in a week full of shocks, so much so that he absently wondered if his body would ever become grounded again. "What?"

Aegon didn't look away in shame or in embarrassment; he held Luke's eyes steadily, man-to-man, even as he spoke of his own sins. "Her name is Bethany. She is four, and looks like Daenerys did at that age." Aegon shrugged. "Or so I'm told. I've never seen her."

Luke stared, waiting for the King to continue. Eventually, the Promised did. "After the birth of Vaekar, Aemma nearly died. It did things to her physically that made the possibility of another child near certain to kill her, if one could even be conceived. The process would no longer be enjoyable to her either way.

"While I don't love the Queen by any stretch of the imagination, she _is_ a faithful, kind woman whom I care for very much. At my insistence, that side of our marriage disappeared. I would not risk the chance of her death simply for a process that no longer brought her the pleasure it used to. If I were as honorable as I am seen to be, I would have gone celibate myself. Instead I was weak."

Aegon never took his eyes from Luke's; he was near forcing his nephew to accept this discussion of the King's weakness. "Bethany's mother was a scullery maid at the Red Keep named Jeyne, who lived not far from Chataya's. There was nothing special about her, either outside or in. She just caught my eye one day, and I used Chataya's legendary discretion to arrange a meeting in her brothel. There are things to be said of whores and their ability, but sometimes a man wants someone who _isn't_ seeing other men on top of it. It was sweet and fun while it lasted, but eventually I moved on. I thought Jeyne understood, even though I arranged for her employment outside of the Red Keep to prevent our further interaction. For a long while, I forgot of her existence.

"She arrived one day at the gates, with a child in her arm. I was lucky in that Ser Arthur was returning from the city at the same time, and managed to intercept her. He got her story, which consisted of her near-fanatic insistence that I acknowledge and raise her—our—daughter, saw the infant, and sent Jeyne home, telling her an envoy would arrive that night for the child.

"That envoy was Baelon."

Aegon grunted. "I never saw Jeyne's instability in our time together. Not once. In all the times I've looked back on her, I still have yet to see indicators. In any case, she had near demanded that I take her officially as a mistress, scandal be damned. Ser Arthur gathered that she would not be bought off or otherwise discouraged. There is more to it, things I won't mention for reasons all my own, but the story ends as you might imagine any story with Baelon ending. There was a fire, and Jeyne and her family—an elderly mother and father—tragically perished in the flames. The bodies were too burned for anyone to see the marks of the blade that had killed them before the flames began. I ordered _that_ mercy, at least."

Aegon grew silent, waiting for Luke's response. Lucaerys, horrified, asked the obvious question mainly because it was the only one he could form. "And Bethany?"

"She is living with the Celtigars, where her Valyrian features fit in. One of Melwys' elder brothers, Corlys, prefers the company of other men, though it is a well-kept secret. He has taken Bethany in as his own bastard daughter, to cover his preferences."

"Do the Celtigars know the truth?"

"They know nothing for certain. They might suspect, but Melwys and Daenerys will keep them sated and silent. Besides, the child could easily be Baelon's or Ser Arthur's or Aelor's or even yours. They know not to ask too many questions. The only people who know—or will _ever_ know—of Bethany's true parentage are Melwys, Dany, Baelon, Arthur and now you. And Aemma. She is pragmatic as well as kind; I told her enough of the truth once the problem arose. She suspected as much anyway—women are good at that."

Aegon leaned towards him slightly, eyes steeling over again. "My point is that I killed a young woman and her family not only to cover up my own weakness from the eyes of the smallfolk, but to prevent Bethany from being used as Daena was going to use herself. Bethany is a Targaryen, just as Daena and myself and you are. Because of that, we must do things, not only to protect one another, but to protect the family as a whole, sometimes _from_ each other. None of us chose this, we were born into it. You have, and in the future will do, many things you wished you wouldn't have to. I have. Baelon has. Even Dany."

"Dany?"

Aegon smiled the smallest of smiles. "Daenerys would kill me if she knew I told you, but I will anyway. She loved Aelor—your grandfather, not my son—since she was a little girl. _Loved_ loved, not as a brother but as more. She never acted on it though; partially because Alysanne is so sweet and good and a mother to us all, and partially because she knew Aelor wouldn't return those feelings the way she had them. It nearly killed her, or so she claims. But she did what she didn't want to, or rather _didn't_ do what she _did_ want to, for the good of the Seven Kingdoms. Maybe that is small, compared to murder and kinslaying, but she knows what it takes to keep our family in power. She has made sacrifices, both quiet ones like that and much larger and damaging ones you'll never know about. We all have."

Aegon coughed, finally looking away from Luke and over the fountains and gardens, which were slowly lightening as servants lit the various lamps and torches throughout. "You will war with yourself over this for the rest of your life. You'll relive it, over and over, until the day your body joins mine and our forefathers in the afterlife many years from now. But in this sacrifice, you've saved countless lives from the war Daena would have raged. When you think about it like that, it's easier to live with yourself." Aegon sighed, and added quietly. "Trust me."

The two men stayed that way deep into the night, both locked in their own thoughts. Stars, hundreds of them, filled the night sky, the garden a beacon of light in the dark. It was hours before Luke finally spoke again. "I guess it is." Luke rose, knees and joints popping. "Please excuse me, Your Grace. I need to return to Duskendale and await Daenella's return; she and I have much to discuss."

Aegon rose as well, grimacing with the motion. "As far as anyone who wasn't at Summerhall five days ago is concerned, there was a tragic accident, as seems to be in Summerhall's fortune for all of time. I don't know the details, but Dany and Varys are already working on your cover. Daenella need never know the truth."

For a moment Lucaerys was tempted. But Daena's words, and Daenella's smile, flashed before his eyes, and the Lord of Duskendale shook his head. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I am done with lying to my wife about this." He started forward, pausing at the entrance to Summerhall and speaking over his shoulder. "I will await my next assignment in Duskendale, Your Grace." He opened the door and entered, adding under his breath. "I am, after all, Loyal Lucaerys, Defender of the Crown."

* * *

 **A/N** : Thanks to TheLaughingMan01 for the 'Dany loved Aelor' bit. I had already sketched out all of Aegon's stuff, but once they left that idea in a review a few days ago I couldn't help but implement it before posting; it just fit so well with what I was already going to do that it seemed like fate haha.

So this is the last chapter in the 'Dangers of Blood'...arc? Ministory? (Whatever you would call these 'same universe, shortened' stories) I would like as many of you as would to **1)** let me know what you thought of the story as a whole and **2)** leave an idea for the next subject in my post-Dragon of Duskendale work.

Shall I tell a story around Alysanne's death? Perhaps Aegon's or Luke's? Maybe a story around Luke after the events of this arc or about his children, or maybe backtrack to the Cleansing of the Isles? Perhaps I could even cover some time between the two main arcs of the original DoD story, about Aelor and his raising of the many Targaryen children or the destruction of House Rogers.

I'd like to get around to plenty of shorter tales eventually even though updates will be slow, as this fic lets me do what I want to do the way I want to do it in the alternate universe I've already built off of Martin's, so feel free to leave several of the things you'd want to read about. I have already planned out at least one and part of another, so I have somewhere to work towards already, but I'd love some input nonetheless. You can still influence the order they're told at the very least!

Thanks in advance! Y'all rock.

Kerjack


	9. Chapter 9: The Mother of Dragons

**Author's Note:** Hello hello!

This is a oneshot chapter based in 327 AC, or five years after the conclusion of the first arc of this story. If you have questions of ages, just add five years to the ones listed in the index in chapter 1 of this fic.

The idea was a brief one that ran away with me, but I really like it, and it serves a dual purpose of setting up the world for some potential future arcs. In any case, keep letting me know what timeframe or story arc you want to read next.

Check out the second note. As always, I hope you enjoy and _review_ this update!

* * *

He hated the septon's droning manner nearly as much as he hated the bloody stones over his grandmother's eyes.

 _Frightening things, and they've got the color all wrong. Her eyes are dark as night, not golden._

Were. Were was the key word, as Lucaerys was horribly, terribly aware. Her eyes _were_ dark brown, not golden.

Alysanne Lefford Targaryen lay on the pyre in the courtyard of the Dun Fort of Duskendale, a slow, drizzling rain falling from the grey skies overhead. _It is as if the Seven themselves are crying._ She was dressed in a gown of white and black, matching the warring dragons of Duskendale stitched on the banner beneath her body. There was no sign of the Lefford coat of arms anywhere near, showing in her death the complete adoption of House Targaryen she had undergone in life. Her long hair, gone completely gray several years earlier, was left unbraided and flowing, pillowing out from beneath her shoulders. Those painted stones rested on her closed eyelids, staring defiantly at the heavens.

Lucaerys felt like staring defiantly as well, demanding reasons for his grandmother's passing. Instead he kept his eyes on the pyre, waiting for the septon to finish.

He knew better than to ask such questions anyway; the woman stretched across the stack of wood to his front had taught him as much. Death was a part of life, and however unfair or terrible it might seem to those left behind it was better for those who had moved on ahead. His grandmother had told him that many times over the years, and he himself had said it to his daughter at least a dozen times in the past few days. He knew it was true.

But that didn't make it easier. No, it certainly didn't.

The feeling of eyes settling on him alerted him that the priest of the Seven had finished, and Lucaerys stepped forward with the until-then-forgotten torch in hand. The rain was light but persistent, and Luke would have been concerned if not for the excessive amount of oil he'd had the pyre doused with. Excessive proved an accurate description when he extended the torch to the wood and it engulfed itself and the body it contained near instantly. Cremations weren't normal for most Westerosi except in times of plague and war, but Targaryens weren't most Westerosi, and Alysanne had been a Targaryen for forty years.

As Lucaerys watched the flames engulf the body he had run to as a child, he chanted along with the assembled crowd. "Vengeance. Justice. Fire and Blood."

He didn't watch the body burn long. Instead he did as she would have; he turned and wrapped his daughter into his arms.

It still was difficult to accept, Alysanne having left him. She'd been there since the day he'd come into the world, always within easy reach and never failing to give him her complete attention…or a smack to the head, as he had often needed throughout his life. She'd been his chief council since he'd become a Lord at less than a year old, and now that council was gone.

 _Is this what she felt when my grandfather died? When my father, aunts and uncle left before her? Gods, if it was, she was even stronger than I'd realized._  
Even if her being gone was hard to accept, the way in which it had happened wasn't. Alysanne had given her life to her family, from raising four small children who were not her own, to seven children who were, to an army of grandchildren who doted on her every bit as lovingly as she did them. She'd survived the death of her two eldest, one by fire and the other by blade. She'd handled the loss of her husband not long afterwards, cut down by death itself while saving one of her surrogate sons' life. Years later it had been her youngest son, slain tragically and accidentally by his brother in the jousting lanes of Rosby. And then, finally, she'd handled the loss of the daughter less than a year past who many said was a younger version of herself, dying in the childbed while bringing forth a future Lord of the Stormlands.

Individually she had handled them all. Combined, though, they had finally taken their toll. Lucaerys was thankful he had been in King's Landing when her health had finally dropped; he couldn't have borne seeing her steep decline.

So he stood under the gray sky on a gray day, his young daughter's arms clutching his side, watching the steam of the flames as they evaporated the falling rain.

* * *

"I'm glad you were the one to light the pyre, Luke. She would have wanted it; you always were her favorite."

Luke stood in his solar, peering out the window overlooking his city. His grandfather had once looked out over the same view, though it had changed drastically from early in the Dragon of Duskendale's reign. When Aelor had taken command of Duskendale as a teenager, it had been a mid-sized city and a trading port that ran a brisk commerce. By the time he had died in the snows of the Neck, the city had tripled in size, a second set of thick walls needed to protect the absurd number of homes and buildings that had grown out and away from the original ones.

It had continued to thrive under Alysanne in Luke's stead, then Luke himself when he'd come into his majority. Now, looking out over his city in the middle of the night, Lucaerys again wondered if he should begin setting aside gold for a _third_ set of protective walls, the city continuously growing. The Butcher's Block and the extensive dockyards kept the city fed. The Temptations kept the city happy. The Estates, the unoriginal name for the area housing the mansions of the cities wealthiest merchants and the pleasure estates of other nobles, kept the city rich in taxes. And the City Watch, commanded by the ever loyal Ser Morris—a former farmboy who had risen from one of Aelor's peasant levies in Robert's Rebellion, to a member of his household guard, to a member of his retinue by the War of Three Kings—kept the city safe.

Lucaerys loved it as much as Alysanne did. Still, it would never be the same without the steadying presence of his grandmother. As much as Luke adored his home, he was already ready to return to King's Landing.

It had been one of his closest companions in the capital that had spoken, as well as his staunchest ally on the Small Council. The Mother of Dragons moved ever more gracefully the older she got, and had never lost her ability to strike a man speechless when she wore a gown of white. She had slipped in and seated herself across the redwood desk silently, so much so that Luke had near jumped out the window at her voice. She had a glass of wine in her hand and a pitcher sat on the desk in front of her, her violet eyes on Luke and a small, sad smile on her face.

Luke took one last glance out the window before turning, returning the small smile even if he didn't feel like smiling ever again. "That's nonsense. Her favorite was always you."

Dany chuckled lightly, eyes on him as he took his own seat across the desk. He opened a drawer in the desk and set out a chalice, which Daenerys proceeded to fill wordlessly. So wordlessly that Lucaerys spoke to fill the silence. "I am fine, Dany."

She shrugged, leaning back after finishing filling Luke's chalice. "I know you are. But I saw you leave the feast hours ago; I gave you plenty long enough to mourn by yourself. It is time we mourn together."

The Lord of Duskendale shook his head slightly. "So much joy in that feast, and Alysanne's ashes haven't even been interred."

"It is the way of life, Luke. You know it as well as I. The realm loved her in life, and they love her in death. They honor her by carrying on living when she no longer can."

Luke nodded slightly, acquiescing to the point even if he didn't necessarily agree. Dany wasn't wrong in saying the realm had loved Alysanne, though; half the court of King's Landing had come with King Aegon to the cremation, and not to curry favor. Ever since the ravens and riders had been sent informing lords and ladies of her demise, return messages giving their regrets and condolences had near flooded Maester Jon and the rookery. Luke imagined they would continue to come in long after he had returned to the capital, and he knew that most would even be genuine. Whichever of Grandmaester Colmar's sides of the scale you fell on—the side that loved Aelor or the side that hated him—most nobles thought the world of Alysanne.

"Where is Baela?" Dany's tone was purposefully lighter, forcing Luke to engage in lighter conversation. It was on the nose and made no effort to hide its intention, but that didn't stop Luke from smiling at the thought of his daughter.

"Mother put her in her chambers long ago. Baela is sharing her room with both Joanna and Merydith, so I imagine it took some settling." Luke absently wondered if he would feel the same bone-deep loss if it had been Myrcella Langward on the pyre instead of Alysanne Lefford, and felt deep shame in realizing he wouldn't. It didn't last though; as much as he loved his mother and as sad as her passing would make him, her life and his own had been vastly different. Luke had been in command of Duskendale nearly since birth, and not far into his teenage years had become an operative for the King. Now, in his mid-twenties, he was Hand of the King, appointed a few years earlier after Tyrion Lannister, both his old friend and Alysanne's, had died. His mother, however, had married Aelor Rykker when Luke was a toddler, and while in the early years she managed to see him often they eventually spent less and less time together. He was often with the King even before his steadily evolving position in court, and she had had a brood of seven Rykker children to raise. It had been Alysanne to truly bring him up.

Dany pulled him from his thoughts. "And Baelor?"

Luke's smile remained when thinking of his sweet son, even if it became a touch sad at the thought of Baelor's mother. "Still with Daenella in Summerhall. They will be making the trip to King's Landing in the coming weeks to pay respects to Alysanne, and I expect Baelor will remain with me and Baela will go with her mother when she leaves."

Dany shook her head in exasperation. "I love Daenella, but she has been a fool these past five years."

"She did what anyone would have when their husband comes home and tells them he killed their twin sister."

"She should have forgiven you."

"She _did_ forgive me. But forgiving the man who lied to you and killed your sister is one thing; sharing a bed with him again afterwards is something else. Besides, Viserra needs her. The poor dear is still trying to recover from that unpleasantness."

Luke saw in Dany's eyes that she didn't agree, but then again Luke knew she wouldn't. They had had this conversation many times over the past half-decade, and he imagined they would have it many times more in the future. "Still, I think you're both fools."

"I can't disagree entirely there." Luke missed his wife dearly, so much it physically pained him, but he understood her need to be away from him for all this time. Besides, it was probably good for him in its own way; he still had trouble looking at her and not seeing Daena's maimed face.

He took another sip of his wine. "Jaehaerys will be travelling south."

Dany cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? This will only be what, the third time in twenty years?"

Luke grinned and shrugged. "He comes for wars, births and deaths, and rattles Southron opinion of Targaryens every time." His grin faded. "He loved Alysanne as much as the rest of us anyway. He wouldn't miss a chance to say goodbye."

Dany reached across to lay a queenly hand on his, and he turned his over to take it. "She loved us all just as ardently as we did her. You more than the others, Luke. You always reminded her of Renlor, and mothers hold a place deep in their hearts for their firstborn." Dany smiled genuinely again, and Luke admired silently her ability to do so so often when feeling the pain he knew she was. "I remember when you were only four or five, and you had a habit of twirling your hair with your fingers. She used to love that."

"She told me to stop every time she saw me. Claimed it'd bring about a permanent part in my bangs."

"That's because it will—what do you think happened to Blue Alex? But she secretly loved it; Renlor used to do it at that age too, and he was much more habitual about it than you were. Mother would tell him to stop, and before you could so much as spit he'd be doing it again." Dany's smile grew, eyes long in the past even as her hand gripped his in the present. "Aelor would always tell her to 'give the boy a break'. I swear the only time I ever saw Alysanne lose her temper with him in front of us was after he'd said that one too many times."

Luke cocked his head at her. "I never really asked her about her relationship with Aelor. I mean I asked about _him_ of course, about who he was and what he was like and if he really did what all those people said he did, but I never asked about _them_."

His aunt nodded, leaning back in her seat and pulling her feet up into the chair with her, legs crossing in the seat and sides of her knees resting on the arms. It was a horribly informal pose, one that looked like something a child would do instead of a dragon riding Princess with grown children of her own, but it pleased Luke in an odd way. "Alysanne and Aelor were…perfect for one another. Disgustingly perfect, if I'm honest. All of his weaknesses she covered, and vice versa. As ruthless and, at times, even _crue_ l as Aelor could be, Alysanne was just as kind. You and I know she had a spine of steel, especially when angry, but her heart was as pure as anyone I have ever met or ever will meet. Aelor was hot-tempered, and she was patient."

Her head wavered side to side for a moment, as if she were debating something, before she spoke on. "Aelor was a better man than most think, but even I could see he was driven by protecting the family and very little else. If he thought killing someone in their sleep would keep me or Aegon or Rhaenys safe he'd do it in a heartbeat, with no hesitation and no guilt. That sort of focused drive certainly has its place in the world, but it needs to be controlled. Alysanne was his tempering force, the moral conscience that he lost somewhere between the start of Robert's Rebellion and the Lighting of the Lions."

Luke was entranced by two things; the information his aunt was giving, and the passion beneath her words as she spoke of the two biggest figures in her childhood. The more she spoke, the more it seemed like he wasn't even there, Daenerys' eyes growing more and more distant and her smile bigger and bigger. "I know what the rumors were of Elia Martell and Aelor, and I believe they truly did love each other at one point, but he was meant for Alysanne. I think the Gods understood that, and maybe that is why Aegon's mother died when she did; so there would be nothing between Aelor and Alysanne. He lived for us at his deepest, but she is what brought joy to that living. You could see it in how he looked at her. It was like she was the brightest thing in the world."

Dany was looking wistfully out the window, and a sudden peal of laughter escaped her as she shook her head. "Gods was I jealous of her." She looked to him, tears of some sort—joy perhaps, maybe nostalgia, but certainly not sad—in her eyes. "I don't make a habit of talking about it, but—"

"You loved Aelor. As a woman loves a man, not as a sister loves a brother." Her shocked look brought his first true laugh in days, and it took him only a second to throw the King under the carriage. "Aegon told me years ago."

She glared in mock-exasperation. "I should never have told my loudmouthed nephew."

Luke raised his hands in appeasement, smirking lightly. "In the King's defense, I had just killed my cousin slash goodsister. I needed _something_ to take my mind off of it."

Dany glared a moment longer before sighing. "Fine. I suppose I won't feed him to Aelon as of yet." She leaned forward, glare intensifying. "But if you ever say a word to anyone you'll be his next meal, understood?"

Luke nodded. "Yes my lady."

She nodded, then resituated in her seat and took another sip of wine. "I used to try and do everything Alysanne did. I wore my hair like her, I tried to copy her mannerisms, I used roses to scent my rooms like she did…all things a young girl in love would do when trying to break up a perfect marriage, you know the like. I loved Alysanne but I hated her at the same time, and I hated myself more because I couldn't deny what was in front of me; that there was no one more suited to the Dragon of Duskendale than his wife, much less his baby sister." Dany chuckled. "It was tough back then, watching and wanting and knowing I'd never get it. It got worse the older I became; I distracted myself with others when I reached womanhood, Bryce Caron, your stepfather, similar types, but I always held out a faint hope." She laughed again. "I'm thankful he never did of course. I loved Aelor—I _still_ love Aelor—but all happened as it was supposed to."

Luke refilled his glass, noticing they had upped the wine intake tenfold since sitting down. "Did Aelor ever know?"

Daenerys laughed. "Heavens no. Your grandfather was unusually perceptive in negotiations and when anticipating his enemy's strategy, but he could be as deaf and blind as a stone about us. The girls anyway, Rhaella and Rhaenys and me; he could read the boys like books, but we women always were mystery's to him. It's for the best of course; though he obviously wouldn't have returned to sentiments, it would have changed how he acted around me if he had known. I think that would have destroyed me quicker than his ignorance ever did." Dany looked out the window again, joy on her face and respect in her tone. "Alysanne knew though. She knew long before _I_ knew. We never talked about it, not ever, but looking back on it years later made it obvious that she had me and my feelings pinned dead center. And still she loved me, and treated me like her own, and kissed every scrape I ever had. She was a great woman."

Luke felt tears in his own eyes, and no manner of blinking dissuaded them. Dany eventually looked back from the window and, seeing them in the flickering candlelight, rose to her feet. Luke had barely made his own before she wrapped her arms around his broad torso, sobs breaking from the Lord of Duskendale's chest despite his attempts to contain them.

When it finally broke it broke hard, and Luke clutched the smaller form of his aunt like a raft on a rushing river, shaking them both with sobs. The Mother of Dragons stroked his hair and rubbed his shoulders and whispered encouragements in his ear, and it reminded him so much of what Alysanne would do when he was a child that he cried all the harder.

It was some time later when he finally cried his last, his face and chest and the shoulder of Dany's gown soaked with tears. "The Seven I miss her," he said as he tried to regain control of his breathing, still clutching his aunt to his chest.

Daenerys had shed a tear or twenty herself from the twin streaks down her cheeks, but she smiled up at him, still stroking his head. "Me too. But she loved us all and you in particular so much, she wouldn't want us to shed tears. She is with Aelor now, and your father, and Rhaella and Daemon and Alyssa. She's happier than either you or I will ever be on this world. And, one day, we'll see her when we pass into the next."

Luke finally relinquished his grip, leaning back slightly. "You're right. I know you are. It's just…she…"

Dany patted his cheek, stopping him. That was all well and good, for he wasn't able to form a sentence anyway. "I understand." She pulled into his side, a comforting hand on his back as they on one accord looked out the window that Aelor and Alysanne had looked out years earlier. "And so does she."

* * *

 **A/N:** So there's that! (forgive my bragging, but I'm really proud of the double meanings to the title!)

I feel this was almost what the kids call 'fluff'. It was kinda fun to write, even if I prefer battles and gore and blood. I might even try it again sometime, although I'll have to write a war between then and now...

Anyhow, TheLaughingMan1's idea got a little bit of elaboration from Dany's POV, as per his request and the general like of the idea that seemed to permeate, as well as some more backstory about Aelor and Alysanne and the like. It should go to show you readers that I pay attention to each idea given, and while I won't use every or even most of the ones you guys leave, occasionally one will grab me and it turns into a whole big arc (again, Alysanne only became a thing in the original fic because someone mentioned her name as a potential pairing and I liked it). I urge you to leave yours; even if I don't reply, I guarantee I at the very least have read it!

Keep letting me know what you think about both this oneshot and what you want to hear next. Y'all rock!


	10. Chapter 10: The Cleansing of the Isles I

**Author's Note:** Hello again!

This is the beginning of the 'Cleansing of the Isles' arc, which won't be horribly long I don't believe, focusing more on combat and logistics than romance or intrigue. It occurs seventeen years before the "Dangers of Blood' arc, and fourish years after the death of Aelor in The Dragon of Duskendale. For ages, refer to chapter 1 of this fic and subtract seventeen years from whatever is listed there.

I'd also like to address the messages and reviews on my other story The Golden Stag, wondering when it will be continued. I haven't given up, nor will I. Those of you who have been around my stories for a while have noticed (I hope) that I try to keep my chapter's quality up and avoid too horrible much filler, and I'm having trouble getting the story from where it is now to where I have all sorts of things planned while maintaining that quality. I've tried several different chapters, gotten half way through them, and realized they were crap and scrapped them. All I can ask is that you be patient until I get the ball rolling on that story, and take hope in that it is by no means dead!

I'll probably do either a requested Blooddragon oneshot or the mentioned/requested House Rogers arc next, but that is far in the future. For now I'm enjoying writing more in this universe, and I always try to please me first. Still, keep your opinions both on the current writing and potential future writing coming! Y'all rock.

As always, I hope you enjoy and _review_ this update!

* * *

It had been over two decades, but some swore you could still feel the heat from the heart of Lannisport.

The King of the Iron Throne certainly could.

The once thriving port city was a blackened, burnt husk on the edge of the Sunset Sea, obliterated buildings and crumbling black walls strewn with debris and remnants of the wonders that had once made their home there. Her great gates had been blown open the morning the city was incinerated, chunks from her walls reputedly flying hundreds of feet. Witnesses to the Lighting of the Lions had been blown off their feet, catapults sent rolling back through ranks of disoriented loyalists. Screams had echoed for hours as the Lannister soldiers who weren't instantly killed burned to death, some diving into the water of the bay only to find the flames burned even there. Nothing had emerged from the explosion, alive or otherwise.

Aegon looked out over the carnage from underneath the arch that had once held the gates, the dragony grumblings of Balerion and his siblings emerging from within. Lord Tyrion had undertaken salvaging operations in the years since Robert's Rebellion, recovering any valuables that had survived alongside stone that could be reused. He'd also buried the twisted, blackened remains of corpses, divers pulling the armor and bones of knights and men-at-arms who had drowned in the bay trying to escape the flames. Hundreds of remains had been recovered, some fused together by the heat of the green fire. Thousands were left unfound, for the explosion had left nothing identifiable.

"I watched it, you know. From my chambers in the Rock. Had nightmares of it for years."

"You weren't the only one. Many men who were there haven't slept well since." Aegon turned to face the Lord of the Westerlands, who had approached from the waiting party sitting saddles a hundred or so yards away. He was dressed in black and Lannister gold, the silver Hand of the King pin on his lapel. "Many put it on par with the Neck."

Tyrion shrugged, his own eyes down the road that had been cleared leading to the dragon's home while they resided in the Westerlands. "I don't know that I agree. I _still_ have nightmares from the Neck." He gestured down the road, where the dragons continued rumbling behind mountains of blackened heap. "It seemed a fitting place, since they're the only things that can match this type of carnage."

The King shrugged, his own black and crimson cloak billowing. Blackfyre was at his side, but his armor was with the baggage train; he'd never inherited Aelor's tendency to dress in armor when only on the march. _I wonder if I inherited his tendency for destruction of this magnitude. I suppose we'll find out soon enough._

The King turned, his Hand turning with him to saunter towards the waiting party of men-at-arms and Kingsguard. "I hope we haven't put you through too much difficulty, Tyrion. I know a war party is hard to host and harder to feed."

"They're harder when they're hostile. Since this one is fighting on the same side as me, I consider it a pleasure."

"The Crown will repay you for provisions, as you well know. Lord Staedmon is already setting aside funds."

The Lord of the Westerlands shrugged. "There is no rush, Your Grace. I have heard pleas from my lords about taking revenge on the Ironborn for so long I am just thankful we are finally sating them."

The party Tyrion had led from the looming Casterly Rock a mile away was fifty or so strong, mainly Lannister guardsmen in their red and gold armor. Among them though was most of Aegon's Kingsguard, sent ahead alongside Tyrion and many of the forces along the Eastern coastline of Westeros. Daenerys had flown a week before to visit Aemon at the Golden Tooth, though both were here now. The King himself had only made for the Westerlands and the armies massing there hours earlier.

Ser Baelon Blooddragon sat a black stallion at the head, as did Lord Commander Arthur Dayne, both in resplendent white armor. Sers Mychel Redfort and Talbert Norridge, appointed to the Kingsguard four years earlier at the end of the War of the Three Kings and the Second war for the Dawn, were also present. Ser Alex Rollingford was likely with Daenerys now that she was in Casterly Rock, though Aegon hadn't been told as much. Ser Borros Staedmon, younger brother of Master of Coin Alesander Staedmon, had remained behind with the royal family left in King's Landing, as had Ser Rolland Storm. The latter was more of a Kingsguard by default these days than a true warrior in any case; his ribs had never healed properly from the Volantene hammer blow at the Second Battle of the Trident, limiting the once great fighting prowess of the man who had killed False King Viserys Targaryen at the same battle.

Another figure stood holding two more black stallions, both—like Ser Baelon's and Ser Arthur's mounts—descendants of Warrior, the legendary stallion ridden by the Dragon of Duskendale. The eleven year olds presence worried Aegon mightily, even if the lad wouldn't step foot on a battlefield until hostilities were long over. Lord Daemon Targaryen of Summerhall had only taken his lordship of the palace he held a scant few months earlier, but upon direct and repeated requests Aegon had taken him along. His cousin was technically his squire, and had taken to the duties of caring for the King's horses and armor with gusto, but Aegon had no intention of the lad fighting alongside him.

For one, he was still a child, even if he was starting to take after his father with abnormally broad shoulders for a boy his age. Secondly, Alysanne had told him before he'd flown west that if Daemon saw so much as a corpse, she'd cut Aegon's manhood off and feed it to Balerion.

The King of the Iron Throne ruffled Daemon's silver hair as he took the reins, swinging up and onto the ebony stallion in a fluid motion. Lord Tyrion mounted his own horse with a bit more difficulty, climbing the literal small ladder built into his custom saddle before settling on the steeldust's back. Aegon spoke as Tyrion did so as if it was a normal way to mount a horse. "How many men do we have present?"

"Eighteen thousand. Most are untrained levies, farmhands and stable boys who were too young to go to war half a decade ago. We are still awaiting the arrival of the Northmen under Prince Jaehaerys and Lord Brandon, though we expect them soon. Ravens had them crossing the Ruby Ford a fortnight ago, with two thousand more men."

The party on one accord began moving at a trot, King Aegon and Lord Tyrion taking the lead on the road to Casterly Rock. Winter was still in swing, the air cold and the ground hard, but most of the snows had abated, and sunshine was more prevalent by the day. The ports were all unfrozen now, even White Harbor; all in all, it was the best opportunity for the reckoning with the Ironborn that they'd had since the whole nasty business with Viserys. "Barely over twenty thousand men. Is that all we can muster, even after four years?"

"I'm sure we could get a few thousand more if we truly needed them. The Second War for the Dawn was vicious, Your Grace, no matter how short lived it might have been. When I returned to Casterly Rock with Elinor a year after it, six of my high lords were children, four of those girls, and I had to find new families for three separate keeps. It was much the same all over Westeros, and will be for years yet."

Aegon grunted, shaking his head. "Thank the Seven none of the Free Cities decided it was time to make trouble."

Tyrion laughed, glancing back towards Lannisport and the sound of three feasting dragons within it. "Oh, I doubt the Seven had much to do with it. I doubt they had anything at all."

* * *

He hadn't seen his brother since before his son had been born, yet they fell in together as they always had.

Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Lord of the New North, had grown his black curls out and added a full beard in the interim, but it was the same slight grin beneath it all. "You've gotten fat."

Aegon chuckled, though his hand self-consciously went to his lean middle. Jaehaerys saw it, and his grin became a full smile. "You look like a tiny giant with all that hair, brother. How did we ever think you could be a southerner?"

Both sons of Rhaegar laughed as they pulled each other into a crushing hug, the furs of Jaehaerys brushing the silk and linen of the Aegon. "I hear your castle is nearly finished. Is it odd, living in a new home of old stone?"

The Wolf Prince shrugged. "No odder than watching former wildlings getting used to their roles as lords and ladies."

"Your wife included?"

Jaehaerys' mouth twitched in another smile, and Aegon knew they both were thinking of the beatings they'd given one another over Jaehaerys' choice in spouse. "My wife included. Is Aelor well?"

"Aye, he's growing like a weed. Alysanne?"

"Same. She has my hair, but I hope that is all she gets from me; gods know she'd do better if she looks like her mother."

"Aye, now that is a fact." Aegon clapped his brother's shoulder, turning them both to the room full of powerful men and women and making their way the short distance to the head of the table. "It is good to see you. I wish it were under different circumstances."

Jaehaerys placed his hands—both good and bad—on the back of the seat to the left of the head chair of the long table, across from where Lord Tyrion would sit. "The life of Targaryens, brother. When we're not fighting a war, we're planning on fighting a war, half the time against one another."

Aegon adopted a similar posture to the seat at the head of the table, nodding. The other lords and ladies, the key military leaders from each region, began to gravitate to chairs from their intermingled chatter, sensing the council was about to begin. "This one isn't like the last two."

"Dragons change things."

"They always have." Aegon unceremoniously took his seat, opening the meeting with the action, and the other council members followed suit. The King gave them a moment to find chairs and finish their individual conversations before clearing his throat. "I thank you all for your loyalty, my lords and ladies. I look forward to another war no more than you do, but the time has come for the Iron Islands to be dealt with. Permanently."

The King briefly let his eyes wander the room, taking note of all the faces as they grunted or spoke their agreement. Tyrion and his wife as well as Ser Sandor Clegane of Clegane's Keep and young Lord Josmyn Peckledon represented the Westerlands, the last new to his position of Lord of the Gold Road once the honor had been stripped from House Payne. He was barely twenty, but young Josmyn was accomplished as a fighter, and towering Ser Sandor was a veteran commander both of the continent's last great wars. The King supposed cousin Aemon also technically represented the Westerlands, but the dragonriders were a separate lot, as Aegon would soon put to the council.

The King's goodbrother Lord Artys Arryn and his vassal Lord Andar Royce represented the Vale, Artys far from the unexperienced, green boy he had been at his first war council years ago. Andar looked much like Bronze Yohn of Aegon's youth had, and fought nearly as hard.

Lord Stannis represented the Stormlands, as did the former sellsword Lord Bronn Bronzegate. The former was stern faced and glowering, the latter much more lighthearted. Aegon knew Stannis and Bronn didn't get along well— _or at all, really_ —but the former lieutenant of the Dragon of Duskendale knew how to win a fight of any sort. War had gotten him his lordship, and war would help him keep it.

Ser Garlan the Gallant led the Reach in the stead of his crippled brother Willas, joined by Lord Mallard Appleton and Ser Mallard Graceford, cousin and husband to Lady Alyce of the same house at Holyhall. Aegon was glad to have Garlan present, as the Tyrell knight had proven his worth in the War of the Three Kings and again at the Second War for the Dawn.

Prince Quentyn Martell, brother to the ruling Princess Arianne of Dorne, led the Dornish, joined by his two close companions Archibald and Cletus Yronwood, the latter of which was also his goodbrother. Two of his cousins, Obara and Tyene Sand—of the infamous Sand Snakes—were also in attendance, none of the Martells overly happy to be in Casterly Rock considering the means of Queen Elia's death. Their commander being silent and mostly untested, Aegon intended to keep the Dornish under the ultimate command of one of his more experienced commanders.

Someone such as Lord Justin Mallister, for instance, who along with his son Patrek represented the Riverlands in the stead of Lord Edmure Tully, who had never walked correctly after the severe wounds he suffered at the Neck. Unbeknownst to the Mallisters, they had been discussed thoroughly by Aegon and Dany as a candidate house to recover all that the Greyjoys were going to lose.

The North was strongly represented on the council, despite being able to bring only a couple thousand soldiers of note. Lord Brandon, all of six and ten, looked at the King calmly, his goodbrother Domeric Bolton at one side and tall, attractively terrifying Lady Dacey Mormont the other. Jaehaerys was also present of course, and nearest to him was Lord Tormund Giantsbane, one of the wildling leaders handpicked by Jaehaerys to be granted lordships. Giantsbane was a brute of a man and still spoke as plainly as his uneducated upbringing would make a man, but he had survived the falling of the Wall, the delaying action at Winterfell and the Second War for the Dawn, and he held the respect of all the wildling leaders. He had been as instrumental as Val in solidifying Jaehaerys' rule of the lands that had once been called "North of the Wall".

That left only the King's own Crownlands, which were the most represented region. Ser Arthur and Baelon were his present Kingsguard, one sitting at the table as an advisor and the other standing silently behind the King's chair. Daenerys sat with Aemon to one side and her husband Ser Melwys Celtigar at the other, the quiet man from Claw Isle having proved himself a solid sounding board for the Mother of Dragons in their scant year of marriage. Lord Aelor Rykker, his old friend and the stepfather to young Lord Lucaerys of Duskendale, rounded out the entourage, though the more they interacted the more the King noticed that Lord Rykker was no longer the same boyish man he had been before the wars.

 _Then again, the war changed us all in one way or another._

Aegon pulled himself from his observations and cleared his throat. "We have just over twenty thousand men poised to strike the Ironborn. If those were our only assets I might be concerned, as Maron Greyjoy and however few of his captains survived have been left in peace to build up over the past four years. But those aren't our only assets, and I doubt much building can be done in the grip of winter."

The King turned to his Master of Ships, Stannis Baratheon. "Lord Stannis, I would like you to take command of both the Royal and Redwyne Fleets. You've defeated the Ironborn in every naval engagement you've ever fought them in; I'm sure that record will not be tarnished in the coming months."

The Lord of Storm's End merely inclined his head in acceptance of the duty. Aegon the Sixth knew perfectly well that Stannis didn't bother with words if he didn't think them necessary, and gestured instead to the massive table they all sat at. Elinor Prester had ordered the table painted with an enlarged map of the Iron Islands in preparation for this very meeting, the titles of each of the islands clearly labeled. "There are seven main islands to contend with, not counting Lonely Light. The Small Council and I have decided on a simple, methodical conquest, starting with Pyke. All of our forces, naval, ground and all three of the dragons, will conquer the seat of House Greyjoy before any other action is taken."

Lord Arryn spoke out, voice clear and concise. "Our policy?"

Aegon raised an eyebrow. "Policy?"

His goodbrother shrugged. "Three dragons, hundreds of ships and thousands of soldiers…I know as well as any man not to count blessings before they are received, but my question is more of what we will do with noble Ironborn houses once we've beaten them."

Several lords grunted or otherwise voiced their assent to the statement, and Lord Mallister spoke. "How much mercy are we offering them, Your Grace?"

Aegon paused just a moment, for this had been a matter of great debate in King's Landing since the foundation plans for this assault had been formed. "Reaving is done, and I don't mean just in Westeros. Time and time again the Ironborn have been more than happy to turn those pursuits back to the Westerosi shores, even if they constrict them to Essos for time on end. As many of you are thinking, that has proven useful to the Iron Throne in years past; many of you remember my uncle using it in Robert's Rebellion. But it is a wicked, evil way of life, no matter how old. It ends, starting now."

Aegon looked to each of his lords and ladies, one at a time. "Ironborn families, with the exception of the Greyjoys themselves, will be given the opportunity to surrender their holdings and their lives to the crown. If they do so, they will be allowed to retain their holdings on the condition that they never return to the reaving ways. Reprimands and reparations will be extracted, I assure you, but the opportunity for them to save themselves will be present."

Jaehaerys spoke, more to keep the king's narrative rolling the way he already had deciphered it was going. "And when they don't?"

"When they don't, we take everything they own, as we will from the Greyjoys no matter their pleas. Their holdings and wealth are forfeit, as many of their lives will be as well." The King shrugged. "This is a way of life we are eliminating, my lords and ladies. I don't anticipate many giving it up peacefully, no matter the odds against them."

He let it sink in, and for the first time in his years of politics was met with no opposition. No matter the merciful nature that might be present in the men and women present in other circumstances, hatred of the Ironborn and the terror they'd unleashed half a decade earlier ran deep.

Aegon continued his oration after only a moment. "Once Pyke has been taken and the island pacified, we will split our force into three more or less even armies, one of the dragonriders with each. I will take the levies of the Crownlands and the Vale and begin the pacification of Great Wyk, the largest of the islands. Princess Daenerys will take the men and women of the North, Riverlands and Dorne and take Harlaw, then Blacktyde. Lord Aemon will take the forces of the Reach, Westerlands and Stormlands and take first Saltcliffe, then Old Wyk. Lonely Light will be left for last, whichever of the forces finish their assignments first taking the long trip to finish the war. Lord Stannis will, amid ferrying our troops from island to island and keeping us provisioned form the mainland, patrol the waters and eliminate any remnants of the once mighty Iron Fleet. We have the numbers, we have the time, and we have dragons; the Ironborn _will_ fall."

Debate and logistics followed for a long while afterwards, though most had already been settled upon. Landing points were chosen, supply lines decided upon and regulated, and chains of command settled between the Lord Paramounts. Much quicker than Aegon had ever known it to happen before, the war was planned and only waiting for men to wage it.

"The Reavers have never shown mercy. If they do not surrender, neither shall we. Burn their forests, butcher their armies—we end this, once and for all." Aegon stood, extending a hand out as he did so to keep the others from doing the same. "Fire and Blood, my lords and ladies. The Cleansing of the Isles begins now."


End file.
